Must Be Dreaming, or Jalex in Wonderland
by Mejhiren
Summary: An affectionate retelling of Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean's fantastic "MirrorMask" in a Jalex context. :D Not a true crossover, but some familiarity with "MirrorMask" is helpful. Think Oz, Wonderland, and a healthy dose of very sneaky Jalex romance!
1. Prologue: Must Be Dreaming

**Prologue: Must Be Dreaming**

_This is the right turn, wrong universe  
__Taking me in full bloom…_

_~ Imogen Heap, "Must Be Dreaming"  
_

The Queen of Shadow had a son. In hindsight, it was probably the one thing in this mad dreamworld that _shouldn't_ have come as any sort of surprise, and yet it was the first to not only shock but truly frighten her.

Alex's immediate thought was to barrel into his arms in undisguised relief, but halfway through the action she stopped sharply to pummel him in the chest instead, shoving him back with ferocious indignation. "You…pathetic…_coward_!" she shouted, her voice breaking as much in wounded betrayal as anger. "How could you? _You_ told them where I was – _you_ turned me in, didn't you?"

"I wish," he retorted, and his voice – crisp, dry, and pure superior Justin – was accent-free. "Could've used the reward."

She took a step back to regard the Prince more carefully and realized with a sinking heart that he was as unlike the madcap English adventurer for whom she had mistaken him as he was unlike her real brother. His skin was pale as alabaster, but luminous – like moondust. His hair – glossy black and artfully tousled – framed an exquisite face that held only cynicism and disdain, especially in his eyes. Cool and silvery as slate, they were, and narrowed in something like contempt.

He was an idealized Justin – no, a Perfect Justin. Even his clothing was uncharacteristically perfect: an open-collared black shirt tailored to follow the lean tapering of his torso and gray trousers that traced the contours of his narrow hips and lithe legs. He was literally breathtaking – beautiful and terrible all at once, and impossible to look away from, even as the sight of him pricked her eyes to unshed tears.

"Justin?" the Dark Queen trilled.

Something jerked in Alex's midsection as Perfect Justin glanced beyond her, over her shoulder at the terrifying Shadow-incarnation of Theresa Russo. It was difficult to decide which was more nauseating: the Prince's casual disregard of her presence – as though she were no more than a piece of furniture to be pushed aside or looked around – or her memory of the Dark Queen's face. She did not turn to follow Perfect Justin's line of sight; the Queen's appearance – a corruption of her mother's, with strange dusky skin, hair like tarnished copper and those black, _black_ eyes – was permanently seared into Alex's mind.

"Take your sister to her chambers and see that she is dressed for dinner," the Queen instructed, then with a rustle of black taffeta and stately sounding of high heels on marble, she made her exit.

Perfect Justin continued to stare after the Queen for a long moment, a distant glint in his silver eyes that might have been the spark of new malice or perhaps the kindling of a tear. When his eyes returned to Alex it was gone, replaced by the contempt that now tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"This way, if you please," he said with neither amusement nor spite nor, indeed, any emotion at all, as he raised a titanium wand he'd never had to fight for and directed her down a corridor of silver-veined black granite, its windows open to the perpetual, insidious red dusk-haze of the Dark Lands.

Alex went ahead of him without protest and crossed the threshold of a room lined to its rafters with massive ticking clock faces and dials, its floor fully occupied with nine massive octagonal boxes of burnished rosewood – eight in a circle with the ninth in the center. As she stared about herself in puzzlement – _what kind of a bedroom was this? Were the boxes trunks – or furniture?_ – Perfect Justin muttered a word behind her, and she turned just in time to see him swirl the wand in an intricate pattern as the door slammed shut between them.

But she had no time for shouts of anger or betrayal, for the ticking of the clocks was growing louder, echoed now by rhythmic clockwork sounds from the octagonal boxes surrounding her, and as Alex turned from the door to regard her new prison, the lids of all nine boxes simultaneously hinged back in triangular sections to unfold nine…creatures. Droid-like women with lanky, yet sinuous, metallic bodies, their feet (if indeed they had any) anchored in their rosewood pedestals and their faces identical masks of age-stained gold with features ever so slightly like her Aunt Megan's, save for the eerie dial in place of the right eye and the lips a mere reflection in a rectangular bit of mirror. One beckoned a disturbingly human hand, its flesh a warm champagne gold, and Alex stepped toward it automatically as all nine began to weave in a stepless dance while crooning a hypnotic, electronic lullaby: "_Why do birds suddenly appear / Every time you are near / Just like me, they long to be / Close to you…_"

She had scarcely a moment to wonder why, in this macabre kingdom of Shadow, only Perfect Justin wore no mask, nor shared the Queen's feral black eyes, then the beckoning droid woman gently sprinkled a shimmer, like starlight, over her face, and Alex Russo ceased to exist.


	2. Chapter One: Hide and Seek

Author's Note: I'm kind of a sucker for Imogen Heap. :D Her music is very MirrorMaskian, so I've incorporated song titles as chapter headings (some of these may seem more relevant than others), and a brief quote from the respective song opens each chapter.

P.S. Sorry for the cramped spacing - every time I reset it and save, it pops up like this...urgh. if you have any insights on this problem, feel free to private message me!

**Chapter One: Hide and Seek  
**

_Where are we? What the hell is going on?  
__The dust has only just begun to fall  
__Crop circles in the carpet  
__Sinking feeling  
__Spin me round again and rub my eyes  
__This can't be happening…_

_~ Imogen Heap, "Hide and Seek"_

It had been a fight like any other, save that it had grown teeth and claws even before Alex and her mother had reached the dinner table. It seemed ridiculously insignificant now – a concert in Boston, Harper had already bought the tickets; maybe Justin could drive? – but at the time Theresa's refusal had been unfathomable, and Alex's protests accordingly seethed with frustration.

She knew she should have asked first – _knew _it, just as surely as all the other rules she delighted in breaking, but…well, she'd already made such an effort. She'd repaid Harper for the tickets, and with her own money at that, and she'd even swung into Justin's room on her way down to dinner to ask him – with a minimum of sarcasm – for help with transport, a cover story if necessary, and winning over their mother. (His shock at Alex's modicum of manners had been satisfying indeed – the one bright spot in her recollections of the evening.) To her surprise, he'd agreed without hesitation, and Justin sacrificing a precious weekend to chase his sister – and, perish the thought, _Harper_ – around Boston was no small matter.

Stranger still, he'd supported her from the onset of the argument. "_Honesty points,"_ he'd urged their mother. _You might not be thrilled with her plans, but at least she's telling you upfront – and I'll be there. Alex isn't a kid anymore; you should be grateful she didn't just tell you she'd be at Harper's and then run off to Boston on her own._ But Theresa wouldn't be swayed. This wasn't a mother-daughter argument over a road trip; it was two women fighting about independence, and both Jerry and Max knew enough to stay well out of it. After multiple attempts to diffuse the issue with logic that neither party cared to hear, Justin finally gave up and joined his father and brother at the table while Alex and Theresa continued their battle across the _queso fresco_ and diced chilies.

"Enough of this!" Theresa said suddenly, slamming the enchilada pan down on the stovetop with a crash and bringing a hand to massage her forehead, as though collecting herself for the final ballast. "You're not going to Boston this weekend, and if you keep it up you won't be going at all!"

"Oh, like you could stop me," Alex retorted, but there was a tremor of disappointment now – hurt, even – behind her customary sarcasm.

Theresa shook her head, incredulous. "Alex, sometimes I swear you'll be the death of me."

"I wish I was!" Alex shot back, the quaver in her voice replaced by fresh spite. "I don't know why you won't give on this! Even Justin said –"

She broke off abruptly as Theresa staggered backward, her eyes unfocused as she fumbled about for the range top, oven door handle, anything to steady herself – only to crumple gracelessly to the floor.

"Mom!" Alex cried, scrambling down beside her. "Dad! Justin! Help!"

Justin was beside them in a heartbeat, bending to ascertain whether their mother was still breathing; his long fingers gently feeling for a pulse, then injury of any kind.

"I didn't do anything, I swear," Alex whispered. "I don't even have my wand."

"I know," he said softly, giving her a quick reassuring glance before shifting his gaze up toward their father. "Dad, call 911. She's breathing, but we need to get her to an ER right away."

Jerry stood as though frozen, just out of his seat, his face gray at the sight of his vibrant, beautiful wife lying still and pale on the kitchen floor. He nodded at Justin's order and took the cell phone from his pocket, but after four futile attempts to dial with trembling fingers, he handed the phone to Max with a hoarse, "You heard your brother. Call an ambulance."

Max shook his head, his eyes wide with every child's worst fear as he in turn passed the phone to Justin, dropping it in his hands as though the touch of it burned. And so it fell to calm, intellectual Justin to relay the details to emergency personnel – _yes, still breathing; yes, still a pulse; no, no apparent injury, just collapsed and unresponsive_ – while Alex huddled back against the cupboard opposite her mother's body, twisting the ends of her hair like a little girl as her dark eyes welled with tears.

Three hours later, Alex and Max sat on a starch-stiff sofa in the hospital waiting room, fussing with old magazines as Justin and Jerry stood in the hallway just beyond, exchanging murmurings in grave adult voices. Theresa was conscious and had apologized over and over for frightening them all, but she was still so pale, and the nurse had ushered them out of her room after only a few minutes of conversation. Wily Alex, her conscience gnawing, had, of course, snuck back in shortly thereafter, intent on tendering a proper apology – and Theresa's weary but exasperated smile at Alex's reappearance went a long way toward forgiveness.

Alex perched on the edge of the mattress, chasing a cheerful smile onto her lips while trying not to look too closely at the IV in her mother's arm. "Mom, you know…I didn't mean what I said earlier," she said quietly. "I was just so angry, and…I don't care about the stupid concert. I just want you to be okay."

Theresa smiled, murmuring in unintelligible Spanish as she reached up to touch her daughter's dark hair. She cradled Alex's cheek for a moment, her eyes sad and full of unspoken words, and then the nurse returned, not amused in the least, to chase Alex out for good.

Exiled to the waiting room sofa once more, Alex pleaded with Justin for details; he glanced at their father for permission, but Jerry frowned in response, and Justin shook his head. Infuriated, Alex pulled the fan-spread of dog-eared magazines into an untidy stack, shoved them at Max, and stormed off to find a vending machine.

Jerry, of course, would stay at the hospital overnight, and so Justin drove them home. Max went silently to his room, and after shooting multiple frustrated glares at Justin – who met her eyes steadily but said nothing in reply – Alex followed suit and went upstairs.

She undressed slowly, reluctantly, as though at any moment, the phone might ring and they'd all be going back to see Mom…but after ten minutes of aimlessly rummaging through her closet in a tank top and boy shorts, the October damp won out and she pulled on her oldest flannel pajama bottoms and beloved threadbare cardigan before slinking – reluctantly, just in case the phone _did_ ring – into bed at last…


	3. Chapter Two: Wait It Out

**Chapter Two: Wait It Out**

_There's nothing to see here now  
__Turning the sign around  
__We're closed to the earth 'til further notice…_

_~ Imogen Heap, "Wait it Out"_

Alex lay awake in the dark for an hour before Justin came in, without knocking or preamble, and crawled in bed with her. He curled an arm across her waist and drew her back against his chest, nestling his face in her hair as he relayed in wooden whispers what he and their father had discussed earlier. Awful, nauseating words like _CAT scan, growth, tumor, surgery, benign?_

"Justin, you're smart; what do you think?" she asked, a sniffle – a hairline crack in the floodgates holding back her fear and sadness – creeping through her façade of calm. "I mean, Mom's healthy, right? She's young…"

He gave a broken little laugh. "Yes, and yes, but that means little or nothing where brain tu– where things like this are concerned. If the cells are benign, the surgery should essentially take care of the problem. If not…"

"If not?" she prompted, the slightest quaver in her voice.

He hesitated a moment too long before finally answering, and evasively at that. "Dad's optimistic," he told her. "Or in denial. Probably the only way he can cope with this – a problem that magic can't fix."

Silence fell between them as Alex furiously blinked back tears, her breath growing shorter and shallower with each sob she fought to swallow. "This is all my fault, isn't it?" she whispered.

"No!" His quiet voice was almost rough with vehemence, though the hands that turned her to face him were startlingly gentle. "It's _not_ your fault, Alex," he said fiercely, bringing a hand to her face and smoothing away the tears as they fell. His gray eyes glinted with sorrow in the darkness, though his own cheeks were dry. "A growth like this takes, at minimum, _months_ to develop. You don't just wave your wand and give someone a brain tumor, let alone yell and wish them dead." He sighed in resignation. "These things just…happen. It isn't right and it isn't fair, but…it's nobody's fault."

Alex shook her head, no longer resisting the flood of tears that streaked down her cheeks in burning salty trails. "I shouldn't have shouted at her… "

"Come here." He pulled her to him with a small sob of his own and tucked her face against his throat, as though by that action he might absorb her grief and carry it for them both. "She knows you didn't mean it, Alex," he murmured, tenderly stroking her hair as he cradled her body against his. "And she loves you regardless. You know that."

Alex merely shook her head again and curled her arms around him tightly as she cried her heart out. Justin had her now, and if he couldn't make everything better, at least he would keep her safe. It had always been this way: when the worst would happen, Justin was like a harbor. Her barbed sarcasm and childish taunts were forgotten as she buried herself in his quiet strength, and he never mocked her later for her tears or looked for recompense. More often than not, he found his own consolation in consoling her.

Tonight was no different. Hours crept past as Alex sobbed and Justin simply held her, sometimes smoothing a hand over her back, or brushing the hair back from her tear-damp face, or (being ever practical) reaching tissues from her nightstand for the moments when Alex could no longer breathe, let alone cry, without blowing her nose. Even when the tears began to ebb and Alex's death-grip on his torso began to slacken, still she did not move away, nor did Justin's embrace loosen in weariness or impatience. He would hold her till she pulled back or pushed him away, and quite contrary to her typical everyday inclination, at this moment, Alex had no intentions of doing either in the near future.

Still, she could be remarkably perceptive – even sympathetic – in these weaker moments, and though she was hardly ready to relinquish Justin's presence, the image of Max's frightened face was plaguing her mind. Her mildly insane younger brother – growing into his looks as a young teen and even finding a girlfriend – had proven unexpectedly vulnerable in the face of this crisis, and he had never enjoyed the sort of relationship with his siblings that entitled him to walk into either of their bedrooms and break down in tears. (Truth be told, he had never needed it before.)

Cursing her better nature and its unpredictable flare-ups of selflessness, Alex drew back just enough to look up at Justin's face and concede to the unspoken query: "You should probably go see what Max is up to."

Justin smiled but made no move to release her. "Nah," he said. "The younger ones are always more resilient in traumatic situations like this. He's probably down in the lair, wand-dialing for a pizza."

"Or trying to bake one without an oven," she agreed.

There was a brief thoughtful pause, then they both said at once:

"I don't smell smoke – "

"The alarm isn't – "

Their sad grins echoed across the darkness.

"Nah, he'll be fine," Justin assured her. "This is where I need to be."

Her insides glowed warmly at his words, though her better nature insisted on giving him a quick half-hearted shove and a final protest. "Oh, go on," she said, a thread of her dry humor returning. "Get some decent sleep. I'll be fine, really – you know, us young ones being more resilient in traumatic situations and all."

"I know," he replied, sounding slightly hurt. "This is where _I_ need to be."

"Oh." She stared up at him for a long moment, temporarily surprised beyond sarcasm. Justin would never leave her in this state of his own volition, but she'd (reluctantly) given him two outs and he'd failed to rise to either bait. "Well, in that case, I suppose I can put up with you a little longer," she admitted with a grin.

"Thanks," he said, but somberly, as though he meant it – as though he needed this more than she could possibly imagine.

She turned in his arms, resituating herself so her back was to his chest again, and Justin slid his right hand over hers, interlacing their fingers as he drew her snugly against him. Alex gave his fingers an answering squeeze, then brought their joined hands near her face to rest her cheek on the back of his hand – a childlike gesture, but not an unfamiliar one in these unguarded moments between them.

"Justin…thanks for backing me up today," she said quietly. "You know…with Mom."

"I'm sorry about your concert," he answered, his voice gentle and genuine in its apology.

"Nah, it's okay," she said and, to her surprise, meant it. "Boston's not going anywhere."

"When Mom gets better, I'll take you up there," he promised.

"No Harper?" she wondered aloud, an impish smile playing about her lips.

"_No Harper_," was the emphatic reply.

Alex chuckled. "So, what: just you and me?" Then the notion struck her fully, with no small surprise. "You mean: go away together for an entire weekend?"

His response came hesitantly this time. "Is that okay?"

She thought a moment of Justin – nerdy, uncool everyday Justin, the one she delighted in publicly humiliating, infuriating, and thwarting at every turn – and then thought of three days and nights alone with him in a new city, away from school, Harper, Mom and Dad…

"Strangely enough," she heard herself saying. "Yeah. I'd like that."

She felt him smile even before she heard it in his voice. "Me too," he said softly.

They lay in contented silence as the minutes, then hours, ticked by. Finally Justin's breathing – the movement of his chest against Alex's back, his breath at her temple – grew slower and deeper with the onset of slumber, and Alex paced her breathing to match it. Thoughts of the day swam together in a senseless colorful whirl, and at last she slept.


	4. Chapter Three: First Train Home

Author's Note: This is where the story goes properly _MirrorMask_, albeit with a slight twist of SyFy's _Alice_ that pulls things together nicely. As a mild spoiler: If you've seen either film, you'll have some idea of how this whole thing will end – and if not, DO remember that the word "Jalex" is in the subtitle of this fic. :D

And finally: it would be enormously helpful for you to watch the episode "Future Harper" before reading further. Not absolutely necessary, mind, but a few things in particular will make much more sense...

**Chapter Three: First Train Home**

_First train home, I've got to get on it…_

_So what, you've had one too many_

_So what, I'm not that much fun to be with_

_So what, you've got a silly hat on_

_So what, I didn't want to come here anyway…_

_~ Imogen Heap, "First Train Home"_

Alex woke, restless and a little chilled, to find herself alone in bed. The blankets had been tucked around her, which meant Justin had left deliberately and without intention to return. Aside from the slightest indent in the pillow opposite her and the lingering scent of teakwood, musk, and spicy florals that was Justin and his myriad hair care products, she might have imagined his visit to her room.

She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, as though that might chase away the gnawing hollowness that had settled in the pit of her stomach. The hazy green numbers on her alarm clock read 2:03am, and she was certain neither she nor Justin had fallen asleep before 1:00. _Maybe Justin got a call from Dad,_ she reasoned with herself. _Maybe he went down to finish bookwork or something for the shop, since we probably won't be open tomorrow...or maybe he finally took my advice and went to check on Max._ While each explanation sounded reasonable enough, none of them quite rang true.

She fought down the sad sigh forming in her throat and climbed out of bed, stepping into her slippers. Since she was up anyway, she might as well ease her mind by discovering what perfectly logical obligation had taken Justin away – not to mention, after all the stress and grief of the evening and a missed supper to boot, a snack was just the thing to settle her down for the rest of the night.

She went into the hallway, rubbing at her eyes when the haze that had slurred the numbers on her clock did not dissipate. The house was dark, of course, but everything had a strange gritty cast to it, as though the street lamps outside were shining through smoke. She rapped lightly at Justin's bedroom door before peeking inside, but he was nowhere in sight. The bed was impeccably made; it hadn't so much as been sat on since the previous morning.

She peered down toward the bathroom, but the door was open and the room beyond in full darkness; frowning a little, she knocked at Max's door, then looked inside. The room was, as always, a jumble of dirty clothes, shoes, abandoned food containers, and other oddments, but the untidy bed – itself a marvel to locate, even without the strange smoky haze – was empty. The living room and kitchen were the same: no lights, no Justin or Max, and no sense to it at all.

She tiptoed downstairs to the darkened Sub Station, calling quietly for both brothers, but no reply came. Only the wizard lair – in truth, the likeliest place – remained to be checked, but at that moment her attention was caught and held by strains of music coming from just beyond the front door. Played on a sprightly instrument that she couldn't quite identify, the piece was a cheerful, lyrical tune of the sort (she imagined) one might hear in a French café and, curious in spite of herself and the circumstances, she opened the door and stepped outside.

The haze was lighter out of doors, but the Waverly Place before her bore scant resemblance to the bright, bustling thoroughfare of daylight hours. The music, she saw now, came from a hand-held, infinitely more endearing sort of accordion, played by a lanky man who lingered about a space on the sidewalk where another man appeared hard at work on a chalk drawing – a landscape of some sort. Though she could see neither one's face clearly, something seemed odd about their features.

At a wrought-iron bistro table nearby sat a dark-haired man in a cream-colored suit, his back to her as he watched the artist and musician. On the table near his left hand sat a tiny ivory cup filled with a creamy dark liquid; a teaspoon with two brown sugar cubes in its bowl lay perfectly balanced across the top of the cup; and all rested neatly on a tiny ivory saucer.

Her curiosity essentially satisfied – with no sign of Justin or Max to show for it – Alex cleared her throat and addressed the musician: "Look, I appreciate a good accordion as much as anyone – um, can – " she snorted at that, but lightly; a token effort of politeness – "but could you maybe keep it down till normal waking hours? People are trying to sleep here."

"Actually, it's a concertina," the sidewalk artist corrected over his shoulder.

The dark-haired man at the table turned suddenly, causing Alex's heart to skip a beat, and exclaimed in a voice at once indignant and to-the-manor-born English, "If you don't mind, madam, we're creating a rather delicate aesthetic moment here!"

He wore a mask – but a mask unlike anything Alex had seen or even imagined before. The construction looked like papier-mâché but smooth, forming square, blunted features and ending just above his upper lip. The mask's right eyehole was no larger than a fingertip and gave no glimmer of a real eye beneath, but perhaps more startling than that, the left side of the mask curved down from the bridge of his nose to cut across his cheek, fully exposing his left eye – or rather, the black patch that covered it.

She stared at him for an eternity, torn between ridiculous laughter, utter captivation, and a frantic little flutter of fear. He was _dashing_, or might have been, had he not looked as if he were trying so hard to embody the word. Half the Jack of Hearts from a deck of cards, half silent screen star – his thick dark hair was black, not brown, as she'd initially assumed – for a split second he was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. In the next second came another realization, and with it a groan at the stupid _obviousness_ she had momentarily managed to overlook.

"Oh good grief, Justin," she said, punctuating the remark with a roll of the eyes. "What, was the eye patch not enough? Cuz whatever look you were going for – " she dropped her voice to a confidential stage whisper – "the creepy chunky mask kinda kills it."

The concertina player stopped playing for a moment to ask the sidewalk artist, "Who's Justin?" Alex glanced between them, realizing now that the oddity she'd perceived in their faces was due to similarly constructed masks, blunting their features and obscuring their eyes.

"No idea," the black-haired man replied, seemingly confused, as he continued to look up at Alex.

"Though I gotta give you props: this is definitely your best accent yet," Alex admitted, unruffled by his response. It certainly wasn't the first time Justin had resisted abandoning a role, however ridiculous.

The black-haired man stood up, reaching for something that rested against the table as he did so. _A walking stick?_ It flashed in the spare light as he propped it beneath his right hand. "I'll have you know, the eye patch is both rakish and hard-earned. And as for the mask: why haven't you got one?" he wanted to know. "It's indecent to go about the city without a mask."

"Um, because I _haven't_ the need to go about the city, looking like an idiot?" Alex told him, with a chortle at her parroting of his words (clever, if she did say so herself). "Look, the next time you can't sleep and feel the need to create ambiance, let me know. I'll round up a kazoo and some sidewalk chalk and we'll be good to go."

"Sounds delightful," he replied, to her surprise, "and cheaper than this lot." By way of explanation, he gestured with his free hand at the concertina player and sidewalk artist, now both back at work. "Shall we set a date?"

_Staying in character to the last – typical Justin. _"Riiight," Alex said aloud to no one. "Well, it's been real. I'm just gonna go back inside now…"

She turned back to the door, which had closed behind her – and found it locked. _Great._ She automatically reached to her ankle, only to recall that she was wearing slippers, not boots, and therefore not carrying her wand. _Double great._ She gave the door a solid kick, accompanied by a growl of frustration, then called over her shoulder to the black-haired man: "Justin, I need your key – or your wand, if you have it."

"Think she's talking to you again, mate," the sidewalk artist said without looking up from his landscape.

"Oh right," the black-haired man replied. He had not resumed his seat at the table but instead elegantly propped himself against the table's edge, perhaps as a superior vantage point. "You need what, love?"

"Oh, forget it," she grumbled. "I'll do it myself."

She pinched together the fingertips of her right hand, then opened them quickly at the level of the door lock, flinging the spell like a key…except there was no flash of light, not even a fizzle, and the lock held fast. "'Okay…that's seriously weird," she thought aloud. She tried the spell again – nothing.

"What _are_ you doing now?" the black-haired man asked, a note of ever-so-slightly disdainful amusement in his voice.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she snapped back, trying the spell a third time with identical results.

"Interpretive dance, perhaps?" he guessed. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but: you look rather ridiculous."

"Says the pot to the kettle," she muttered under her breath. "Listen, much as I appreciate the insights, could you maybe – ?" She broke off abruptly at the sight of a black viscous material oozing down the surface of the door – or rather, the entire side of the building – and took an instinctive step backward. "What the – ?"

"Get back!" the black-haired man shouted. A moment later he'd grabbed Alex by the arm and was pulling her away as the black ooze, which had hardened over the door like a crust of volcanic rock even as it spilled swiftly onto the sidewalk, began spreading toward them in an ever-widening wave.

"Leave it – run!" the black-haired man cried to the sidewalk artist, whose modest masterpiece lay directly in the path of the ooze. Lost in his work, he barely had time to glance up in surprise; the ooze crested over him like a pebble in a surf and left behind only a moderately human-size heap of pitted black rock.

Alex gasped and stopped short, half-inclined to run back and see if there was anything to be done for him, but the black-haired man shook his head, never slacking his grip on her arm, and the concertina player shoved them both ahead of him down the street. Her side already splitting from the unfamiliar exertion, Alex ran alongside the black-haired man, stealing a last few glances back at the concertina player as he pushed the bistro table and chairs into the path of the ooze, perhaps hoping to dam the flow, then flung in his precious concertina – but to no avail. Alex looked away as the ooze swept him up too, and followed the black-haired man through a doorway into a ramshackle brick building she had never seen before. He slammed the door behind them and pulled Alex further into the room as the ooze crept just beneath the door – then solidified to rock, effectively sealing them in.

"Right, that's stopped it," the black-haired man said, releasing her arm. "We're safe for the moment."

Alex took in their surroundings at a glance. It appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, with high tiny windows filtering in a bit of gray light to reveal a floor littered with crumpled newspapers and fragments of brick. In short, not the sort of building one would expect to find on Waverly Place – and certainly no building she'd ever seen before, let alone in this neighborhood.

"Are you all right?"

She turned to face the black-haired man, who was so quintessentially Justin, and yet, somehow…not. "Yes – well, no," she told him. "Your friends and my house just got eaten by some black goo."

"Shadows," he corrected, almost thoughtlessly, as he walked to the rear wall, presumably seeking an alternate exit. Alex quirked a brow at his retreating back, unamused. "And not to say that I don't mourn the loss - Chas was the best concertina player in the city - but they _were_ something of recent acquaintances."

"Not to mention, for some freakish reason," she added, "I can't do magic."

He stopped and turned about, directly beneath one of the windows so his movements were distinct in the haze. "Oh, is that what that – " he theatrically waved one hand in a parody of her failed spellcasting – "was all about? Doesn't work unless you've got the right artifact, I'm afraid, and judging by the state of you, I doubt you're carrying anything of the kind."

He turned back to his searching and, a few moments later, opened a door in the rear wall, throwing himself briefly into silhouette as he looked out. _Same lean build, same height, same narrow sloped shoulders; how could it _not_ be Justin?_ "Well, this could be tricky," he thought aloud.

"What could?" Alex asked, crossing to him and looking out the door – at a three-story drop into a strange city of tall pale buildings, as blunt and generic as the mask he wore. "Oh…that." The warehouse sat at the top of one such building, and stranger still, the world on this side of the building lay in daylight – an overcast, dusky daylight, but daylight nonetheless.

She stared up at him for a long moment. His features – the eerie blunt mask that obscured the right side of his face, the black patch that covered his left eye – were sharply defined in the corrupted sunlight; his lips, at a level with her eyes, suddenly seemed to be all that was human about him. "This isn't Waverly Place, is it?" she said finally. "And you're not Justin."

"At long last, daylight begins to glimmer," he teased, but kindly, offering a hand. "I'm called Serge."

She gave a snort of disbelief. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"'Serge' is an entirely respectable name for an English gentleman," he retorted, a little indignantly, as he withdrew his hand again. "And eminently suitable for one who is also an adventurer."

"Ah, of course," she said, suppressing a chuckle as she gestured at his right hand, which rested on the walking stick that she could now see clearly to be made of gold and heavily encrusted with multi-colored gemstones. "The bejeweled cane. Didn't see that right away."

"Oh – do you think it's too subtle?" he asked, a note of genuine concern edging into his voice.

"Yeah, not really," was her dry reply. "Make a note: I will be borrowing it later."

"Dare I ask why?"

She grinned. "Don't bother. I haven't had time to think up a decent lie, and it's no fun at all if you know it's coming."

He frowned and stepped back from the doorway to circle around behind her, apparently looking her over more closely. Alex shrugged her shoulders, shifting awkwardly beneath his gaze. It was more discomfiting than she would have imagined to be stared at by someone whose eyes you couldn't see – or, for that matter, someone who might not even _have_ eyes.

"You really are most extraordinarily frank," Serge declared at last, circling back to face her.

"You'll get used to it," she assured him.

His lips twisted to one side in a lopsided semblance of a grin – _or was it a grimace?_ Alex had never been attentive to detail, and expressions were nearly impossible to decipher from the lips alone. "What's your name?" he asked her.

"Alex."

"Alex is a boy's name," he replied smartly, grinning now.

"Well, it's all you're getting out of me," she answered in kind.

A sudden hiss from a nearby rubbish heap startled them both. "What _is_ that?" Alex asked, taking a timid step closer. In the light from the still-open door, a creature peered up at her. It was, by her best reckoning, a cat – that is, if cats came in a purplish hairless form and had paper-thin rainbow wings sprouting from their shoulders. Crazier still, its face was like a moving two-dimensional cutout – of Max's face. Max's girlish eyes, snub nose, and full lips – on a cat's head, complete with small pointed ears.

"It's a sphinx," Serge answered from her shoulder. "Troublesome on its own, but potentially deadly in packs."

"Um…really?" She glanced back at Serge, then at the Max-cat again, who grinned widely, revealing a mouthful of sharply pointed teeth. "Cuz it kinda looks like a creepy purple cat with my brother's face."

"Great – you can distract it with polite conversation while I find a way to get us out of here," Serge said, his voice more distant now. Alex looked back to see him rummaging through the contents of a shelf to the right of the back door. "Oh, lovely," he declared, triumphantly holding up a book in each hand.

"Books?" Alex shuddered, more afraid of this new prospect than of a fanged, winged Max. "What are we going to do with those?"

Serge tossed her the book in his left hand – a narrow paperback. "Throw it to the sphinx," he explained. "They eat them...among other things."

"Really?" She tossed the book to the sphinx, who leapt on it with a feral growl and immediately began tearing up and devouring pages with its sharp, albeit-two dimensional, teeth. "Nice," Alex declared with a grin. "My kind of monster. Books are for eating, not reading," she chirped delightedly to the sphinx – who snarled through a mouthful of pages as its long-lashed Max-eyes flickered up at her

Her enthusiasm dampened by this response, Alex inched back slowly toward Serge and the bookshelf. "Okay: now what?"

He handed her a large flat book, then picked up another for himself.

"Please, no reading," Alex begged. "_Really._ I'd rather – I don't know – scale the wall and try to climb down."

"Then it's lucky for you that's an atlas," Serge replied, smiling broadly. He turned his attention to the book in his hand and, in the crispest, poshest accent imaginable, announced, "You, sirrah, are a pathetic waste of paper – a disgrace to the profession of writing. Scholars the world over wept upon your publication, and daily hold gatherings for the burning of your fellows." With that he flung the book to the floor – only it slowed to a stop a few inches above the ground and hovered open, spine-side up. Bejeweled cane in hand, Serge stepped elegantly onto the book, and it slowly sailed out the door.

"Wait – what did you – what do I do?" Alex shouted after him.

"Insult it," he called back, his voice dancing with amusement. "Should come easy enough for you."

"You know, I'd take offense, but…" she trailed off, chuckling. "Here goes." She glowered down at the book in her hands – already it seemed to be trembling – and said quietly, "Listen, you: this is Alex Russo. I eat books like you for breakfast. Literally. With butter and syrup and – "

The book leapt out of her hands with a whimper and hovered above the ground just as Serge's had, albeit much nearer the doorway. With a last glance back at the sphinx – which had finished its paperback and was now creeping toward her, licking its lips in anticipation of a main course – Alex scrambled onto the hovering book as it flew slowly out the door and over the city.


	5. Chapter Four: Tidal

Author's Note: A thousand pardons, oh patient ones! In the interim weeks I had a computer crash, a frantic hard drive rescue, a comparably frantic search for a new computer – and then a road trip that took me away from active Jalex for a good ten days. Very, _very_ sorry for the delay!

**Chapter Four: Tidal**

_While we're here, let's see what happens  
__What we got, got, got to lose  
__While we're tidal and flexed on a full moon  
__It'd be a sure, sure shame to not to...  
__~ Imogen Heap, "Tidal"  
_

Alex clambered to her feet, ignoring Serge's proffered hand as she dusted at the knees of her pajama bottoms. "So, let me get this straight: around here you just insult a book and it gives you a free ride?"

She glanced about her at the buildings hemming in the brick street, their blocky pale exteriors hazed a little golden in the strange dusky sunlight. Just overhead, a school of shimmering silvery fish sailed cheerily past, borne up by neither wind nor wave.

"_Ideally_, it takes you back to the library, so it can lick its wounds while you make a more suitable selection," Serge explained. His debarkment having been considerably more graceful, his cream-colored suit was free of soil and the smile curving his lips ever so slightly smug.

"Ah yes," she thought aloud. "Which is why we got off on this main street."

"No, we got off here because the terrified atlas finally threw you at the corner," he corrected dryly. "And I was duty-bound to stop and ensure you were uninjured."

"You know, Serge," she mused in a voice full of her wisest-sounding sarcasm, "when someone's lying through their teeth, it's much cleverer if you just play along."

"Yes, well," was the unamused reply. "You were supposed to _insult_ the book, not threaten it with imminent death."

She scoffed. "Says the guy who threatened his with public book-burning parties!"

"It's all in the delivery," he told her, his smile broadening into a smirk. "My book knew I was simply tendering a scathing review – as evidenced by the fact that it slowed down and allowed me to step off here, rather than flinging me into the street and flying away full-bore, half mad and – ah yes – _sobbing_."

"Oh please," she guffawed. "If an atlas can't take criticism, they may as well hang up the whole publishing profession. Books are highly overrated."

Serge glowered back at her – at least, she imagined he did. With most of his features concealed – particularly the eyes – it was disconcertingly difficult to tell whether or not she'd succeeded in infuriating him. Envisioning his expressions – as the ones Justin would make in the corresponding situations, of course – gave her a modicum of satisfaction that she hadn't realized she needed quite so badly.

She smiled sweetly back at him. "So: now what?"

"Well, the immediate danger has passed and you're back on solid ground," he replied. "So I think I'll bid you good day." With that, he gave a little bow of the head and turned to go.

Something jerked in Alex's midsection at this – something strange and uncomfortable and a little like loss – and the words leapt out her mouth before she could stop them: "No, wait – you can't leave!"

"I've a concertina player and an artist to replace," he reminded her – over his shoulder, as he continued to walk away. "And I'm sure you've business of your own to see to."

"'Business of my own'?" she echoed. "I don't even know where the heck I am!"

He stopped then and turned to face her fully, albeit from several paces distant. "How can you live in a place and not know where you are?" he asked curiously.

She frowned. "What do you mean, live in –?"

"Didn't you say the shadows destroyed your home back there?" he asked, pointing in the direction from which they had come.

"Yes, but I'm not sure that was really…" She sighed in frustration, poking at a loose brick with one slippered foot. "Oh, never mind. You already think I'm crazy, and any attempt to explain this wouldn't do me any favors."

Serge hesitated a moment – perhaps contemplating her, or what she had said – and then walked slowly back to where she stood. "This is the White City," he said quietly, with an all-encompassing gesture at the buildings around them, "governed by the Queen of Light and the Prime Minister. We have shops, cafés, cathedrals; all the usual nonsense that makes for a truly grand city. West of here are the Borderlands, and west of those, the Dark Lands, ruled by the Queen of Shadow."

"Shadow?" she repeated. "You mean, like the ooze –? "

"Yes, well spotted." His lips twisted in a humorless wry smile. "I'd stay east if I were you, love. And with that: I bid you adieu." He gave her another bow of the head – more cursory this time – and began to walk away again.

The thing in Alex's midsection twisted sharply, as though a steel fist were curling her insides into a knot. "Oh, good grief," she grumbled through a wince that was as unexplainable as it was undeniable, then called after him: "Serge – I'm an artist!" She cringed as the words left her lips, but the desired effect was instantaneous.

Serge turned on his heel to face her. "Are you indeed?" he asked, an almost teasing lilt in his voice and the faintest of smiles playing about the corners of his mouth.

She walked up to him, wondering why she was feeling an almost uncontrollable urge to grab him by the arm and drag him _somewhere_ for further conversation. He wasn't supposed to have the last word, and he definitely wasn't supposed to be walking away from her, but at the moment, she couldn't quite remember why.

"Yes," she said, with a seriousness that was entirely out of character. "And…I don't have a clue where I am or what I'm doing here, so if you could just stick around for a few minutes and help me get my bearings, I'll…um…"

"Yes?" he prompted merrily, anticipating her terms with a broadening smile.

Alex glared back, but only for an instant. She needed this strange not-really-Justin, at least for the moment, and she knew somehow that no amount of complaining, eye flutters, or snide remarks would win his assistance. "I'll help with your stupid – with your street show," she promised, forgetting in the moment to bother crossing her fingers. "But just till you find another artist."

His smile widened to an outright grin. "What about the kazoo?"

She snorted inelegantly. "You're on your own for that. I recommend making do with waxed paper and a plastic comb."

He stepped up close to her, still smiling, and brought a hand to the side of her face. For one mad moment she thought he was going to brush back her hair, or stroke her cheek – but instead he lightly tapped at her temple with a fingertip. "Well, what do you know?" he said softly. "There's some knowledge in that head of yours after all. Precious little room beside all the sarcasm, no doubt, but you've managed to squeeze it in somehow, and I am duly impressed."

She attempted an answering smirk but her lips were suddenly dry, and her temple tingled strangely from his touch. "Second-grade craft project, _buddy_," she retorted, licking her lips and wondering why her heart was beating a little faster. "Do we have a deal?"

"_You there!"_

Startled, they turned to see a line of eleven towering stilt-legged creatures, brick red in color, with tiny round bodies and turkey-like heads, waddle rapidly up to them with a clatter of pointed wooden feet on brick. They formed a semicircle around Alex and loomed disapprovingly over her, blinking their wide, slightly protuberant eyes as they swiveled their strange asymmetrical heads first one way, then then other.

"What d'you think, lads?" asked the centermost stilt-bird, who stood nearest to Alex. Despite his bizarre appearance, his voice was crisp, clipped, and entirely British.

"That's her, Sergeant!" chimed the stilt-bird on his left.

"For certain," put in another.

"Matches the Minister's portrait, right down to the face," added a third.

"Right freakish, that," declared a fourth with an odd shoulder-wriggle that might've been a shudder.

Alex mustered her most winning smile, quite uncertain whether she should roll her eyes, laugh outright, or be in any way alarmed by this new development, and addressed the curious lineup: "Well, this is new. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She felt Serge at her shoulder then and, nonsensically, felt a little safer. Up till that moment, she'd not realized she was in any way afraid – nor, for that matter, how very much she already depended on him after a half-hearted rescue and twenty minutes of sarcastic exchange.

"Good afternoon, gents," he said cordially to the stilt-birds. "The local constabulary, I take it?"

"Translation?" Alex hissed over her shoulder.

"Police," he hissed back, "obviously. You were expecting the _army_?"

"Police?" she repeated, ignoring his jibe in her puzzlement. To the stilt-birds she said, "You're arresting me? I've only been here, like, twenty minutes!"

"Surprised?" Serge murmured dryly.

"Heck, yeah!" she replied, looking over her shoulder to flash him a grin. "This is a new record." She turned to the creatures again, asking eagerly, "What did I do?"

"For starters, traipse about the city without a mask," Serge muttered in her ear. "I _told_ you it was indecent." Alex promptly elbowed him in the stomach and – Serge being proportionately identical to Justin – had the instant gratification of hearing the wind knocked out of him.

"As if Your Highness doesn't know," scoffed the stilt-bird sergeant, while the others bobbed their wattled heads in unanimous accord.

"'Your Highness'?" Alex wondered aloud, impressed. "Wow. Usually it's just 'young lady.' How serious of trouble am I in, anyway?"

"Trouble?" said the sergeant innocently. Five of the others echoed the word in turn. "No trouble, Highness."

"No trouble whatsoever," assured the stilt-bird on the sergeant's left with an unpleasant smile.

The sergeant cleared his throat pointedly. "We simply want to ensure you get safely back to the palace – "

"Palace?" Alex interrupted with an uncharacteristic note of girlish delight. "What, so I really _am_ a princess? This just gets better and better!"

She turned back to Serge, her dark eyes dancing at this latest piece of news, and the stilt-birds saw their opportunity. The four nearest each swept a leg beneath her, scooping her up in a makeshift sling of their unexpectedly flexible limbs, while the others stepped in nearer to form a cage about her with their legs while bracing their now one-legged fellows.

"Well…until that," she admitted, her momentary enthusiasm abruptly snuffed out. She wriggled in her stilt-sling – it was rather like sitting in a papasan chair from which either of her brothers had, magically or otherwise, suddenly removed the cushion – but there was no loosening of their hold, nor Alex-sized gaps in the binding. "Um…Serge?" she said warily, sitting up as high as the stilt-legs would allow to peer over at him. "I'm getting a really bad feeling about this."

Serge promptly stepped up to the leader of the stilt-birds, hemming authoritatively. "Excuse me, Sergeant, but: as an upstanding citizen, I wonder if I might ask what crimes this young lady has committed for you to apprehend her in such a manner?"

"Of a capital nature, sir," the sergeant answered grimly, "impacting both our Queen and the safety of our fair city."

"_Capital?_" Serge whirled back to Alex to demand in a voice at once aghast and infuriated and utterly Justin-at-the-onset-of-an-apoplectic-fit: "Alex, _what did you do?_"

In spite of herself and the rapidly escalating situation, Alex grinned back at him. "No idea, but I bet it was fun."

At that, as if on cue, the stilt-birds leaned on each other and began to waddle with surprising swiftness down the street.

"Oh really?" Serge called after them, his irony palpable even at the increasing distance. "Well, I hope the remembrance of it keeps you laughing when they measure you for the noose!"

"I was _kidding_!" Alex shouted back, all traces of humor vanishing. "I have no idea what this is about, I swear! I only just got here, like, _minutes_ ago. I know that doesn't make sense, but – Serge, you have to help me!"

He sighed as the stilt-birds – and Alex – swung a sharp right at the end of the block and disappeared from sight. "I'm going to have to do the honorable thing here, aren't I?" he enquired of the heavens and, after a moment, anticipating their reply, added, "Lovely."

He hurried after the stilt-birds and quickly caught up with them, but they gave no indication that they intended to stop or, indeed, slow down for further conversation, and so he found himself jogging alongside, all but shouting his protests up toward the sergeant at the head of the curious formation. "Excuse me, sir, but…I believe you may have…this young lady…confused with someone else. She's my business partner in the…the, erm…Streetside Aesthetics Production Company!"

Alex snorted, unimpressed, from her bunting of stilts. "Really. That's the best you can come up with."

"Capital crime means capital punishment," he reminded her meaningfully. "Though if you'd care to chance it –"

"Streetside Aesthetics, that's the one!" she said loudly, tugging at the nearest stilt-leg to hand. "Maybe you've heard of us?"

"She makes chalk drawings while I do a soft-shoe act with a bejeweled cane," Serge explained in a yell. "We're the perfect act for al fresco dining!" But the stilt-birds, annoyed by the disruption, only quickened their pace. Even at a run, he was easily passed up.

"But…we have a concertina!" he cried, doubling over in a gasp for breath as the stilt-birds raced on ahead. "Wait!"

It was too late. The stilt-birds, sighting their objective – the arched gateway to the courtyard of a shimmering, ivory-spired palace – put on a final burst of speed and left him behind for good.


	6. Chapter Five: Bad Body Double

Author's Note: The following three chapters started off as just one, but when it grew past ten pages I had to subdivide to dedicate enough space, time and detail for each of the three scenes taking place. Here's hoping a three chapter update is sufficient to appease you after the long wait! ;D

**Chapter Five: Bad Body Double**

_It's not me, no  
__It's my bad body double…  
__She's trouble  
__She's trouble  
__She's trouble, alright…  
__~ Imogen Heap, "Bad Body Double"_

Alex felt a strange tightness in her chest as she watched Serge fade from view and forced herself to look around at other things – the buildings they passed, the few odd creatures populating the streets (whoever heard of having a shoe for a head? Or asymmetrical metal blocks, stacked one on top of another, for limbs?), the round red bodies of the stilt-birds hovering above her. Eleven times out of ten, she'd managed to slither out of punishments for things she _had_ done; getting out of trouble when she hadn't actually done anything should be a piece of cake. And anyway, it wasn't like she _needed_ Serge – i.e., a more obtuse Justin with an even more ridiculous fashion sense – at least, not anymore. He'd saved her from the Shadows and that weird Max-sphinx and told her all she really needed to know about this place; if she couldn't handle it from here, she wasn't Alex Russo. Serge himself had admitted as much when he tried to leave her – twice. So why did she suddenly feel so desolate without him?

The stilt-birds clattered to a stop while a gate before them was ponderously unbolted, and Alex peered through her cage at a nearby shop window. For one moment it was a tiered display of velvet hats with outlandish plumes pointed every which way – and in the next she was looking at herself, sound asleep and lying in her own bed, in her own room, safe at home. She frowned, pressing her face between two stilt-legs to peer more closely at the image. It was most definitely her room, down to the pink faux fur wallpaper, and the girl in the bed was most definitely her, which meant –

"_Ohhhh._" She sank back into the stilt-bunting with a long sigh. This was a dream, just a dream, and – if truth be told – that explained a lot of things. Magic that didn't work? Creatures, the likes of which she'd never seen in everyday life or the wizarding world? A hairless purple winged cat with Max's face? _Justin with a flawless British accent?_ She chuckled at that last thought but couldn't quite shake the feeling of…disappointment. Part of her was almost starting to enjoy the adventure, even with Justin's madcap alter-ego for company, and the realization that he wasn't – that none of this – was actually _real _–

But then, that meant she could wake up anytime, right? So she didn't have to worry about the stilt-birds and Shadows and dire potential punishments anymore, because, with the blink of an eye, she could be safely back in bed…_cold and alone and worrying about Mom's surgery._ She sniffed and stared ahead as the stilt-birds picked up their pace once more, carrying her beneath a high stone archway and into the courtyard of a porcelain-spired palace, seemingly crafted from pure shimmering light.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, thankful that she didn't have an audience to witness her momentary loss of sarcastic composure. _Well, who said a dream had to be bad?_ If this was the alternative to lying awake and alone in her grief, she might as well enjoy it for as long as she could, Serge or no Serge.

The stilt-birds carried her up a waterfall of gold-veined white marble steps – not at all easeful on the tailbone, as she reminded them in much less pleasant language – through an enormous pair of golden double doors and down a corridor of the same marble, ending in a throne room of sorts. At one end of the long hall was a pearlescent dais, encircled by several smooth stone steps that shimmered with gold, its center showcasing two empty chairs: a towering spired white throne, mirroring the architecture of the palace itself and glittering and fragile as spun sugar, and the other a stouter, sturdier construction of heavily gilded wood.

Near the edge of the dais was an ornate crystal podium on which sat a small red creature – half-hedgehog and half-snail, judging by appearances – and behind which stood a white-robed man in a high peaked cap of silver. Assembled a few feet back from the foot of the dais was a straggling line of persons similar to, and yet nothing like, those Alex had spotted in the street. With the exception of the white-robed man – and, of course, Serge and his ill-fated companions from the street show – none of the city's denizens were quite human, though the ones here were noticeably more human-shaped than those she had seen outside. Where those had appeared to be cobbled together from someone's scrap heap, the creatures here were vaguely identifiable as gnomes, trolls, and – was that a chicken? – albeit with blunt, featureless masks like Serge's and a few extra horns she didn't recall for their species.

The stilt-birds carried her past all of these, ignoring the grumbles of protest, to drop her unceremoniously at the foot of the dais. Indignant, Alex stood, brushing needlessly at her backside – the marble floors were immaculate and oddly warm to the touch – and, shaking her hair out of her face, turned to address the stilt-birds where they had fallen back into formation behind her. "If this is my dream, I'd like a bit more say in the whole transport thing," she declared, more feisty than truly cross. "The ride was bad enough, but you guys lose major points for that landing."

A few of the stilt-birds cocked their heads in puzzlement, but the sergeant didn't skip a beat. His next words were to the white-robed man on the dais: "Prime Minister, sir, I trust you'll forgive this interruption. As you can see: we've caught the Princess."

"Caught the Princess," the other stilt-birds affirmed, talking over each other in their eagerness.

There was a suitably British gasp from the trolls and gnomes and such nearest to Alex.

"Caught the Princess?" echoed a familiar voice from the dais behind her. "Are you quite sure about that, Sergeant?"

Alex turned, half expecting what she saw next. The man on the dais, despite his mask of sorts – an odd slender construction of silver, rather like the nose guard on a medieval knight's helmet, only extending from the brim of his peaked cap to his upper lip, where it branched out to either side in curlicued flourishes, rather like an elaborate mustache – was clearly Jerry Russo, or rather, this dreamworld's version of him, grandly arrayed in an heavily embroidered robe of iridescent white with trailing silver-lined sleeves.

He walked to the edge of the dais, then – with surprising gracefulness for a stoutish man in an ankle-length robe, with voluminous sleeves billowing to either side of him – continued down the steps till he stood directly before Alex. There was no light of recognition in his bright brown eyes, only curiosity coupled with a hairsbreadth of confusion, as he gently lifted her chin with one hand to regard her more closely. "The Princess, you say?" he said softly, frowning a little as he studied her features for a long moment.

Alex simply stared back at him in uncharacteristic silence, half wondering herself.

"I think not," the Minister decided at last, lowering his hand from Alex's face as he stepped back to address the stilt-bird company. "There is a marked resemblance, I grant you – and a most perplexing one at that – but: consider her clothing."

Alex looked down at herself, belatedly recalling that she was wearing pajamas, and not the ones she would have chosen for a jaunt through an exotic city, in a dreamworld or otherwise.

"Might she not have exchanged it in her escape, sir?" the sergeant suggested.

"And her eyes?" the Minister challenged. "Do you suggest she might have exchanged _those_ en route as well?"

A little disconcerted at the thought, Alex rubbed at her eyes, as though assuring herself that they were still present and accounted for.

"Not to mention," the Minister was continuing, "that the Princess, for all her alleged evils, never once in her sojourn at this palace spoke a word half so impudent as did this girl to your company but a moment ago."

"Dude!" Alex exclaimed, finding her voice at last. "Are you saying this Princess never talked back to anyone?"

"That was my meaning, miss," the Minister replied with the smallest of smiles. "Though I hope you will believe it when I say I intended no disrespect to you with this observation. Quite the contrary, in fact."

Alex grinned – at least this dream character was behaving in a manner _somewhat _consistent with her expectations! – and, warming to her audience, asked the room at large: "But then, really, guys: how bad could she be?"

The response was instantaneous: a suitably British outcry from the trolls and gnomes within some twenty feet of her and appalled mutterings from the stilt-bird company. The Minister, however, stared back at her, his dark eyes widening in realization. "You truly don't know," he said.

Alex shrugged. "I keep telling you people I'm new in town."

"Where do you come from?" he asked her. "Who are your parents?" While his voice was more curious than interrogative, there was a note of urgency behind the questions that made Alex a little nervous.

"Um…both of those might be kinda difficult to explain right now," she told him.

"Your name, then," he said. "Surely that cannot be so complicated."

"Alex," she answered – an obvious oversimplification, but no less honest for that. A moment later, however, she was poked insistently between the shoulder blades by something blunt and narrow – not entirely unlike a stilt-foot – and looked back over her shoulder to see the stilt-bird to the left of the sergeant standing flamingo-style, his upraised foot tucked innocently behind his balancing leg. He grinned meaningfully back at her.

"-andra," Alex added reluctantly, correctly guessing at the reason for his action, and was rewarded with another stilt-foot poke to the back. "Margarita," she said curtly, and yet another poke followed. "Russo." _Poke!_ "Oh would you stop that?" she snapped, glaring daggers back at the thoroughly amused stilt-bird. "That's all!"

"Oh, he knows," the Minister assured her. "He's enjoying himself now – and entirely too much at that, so: if you wouldn't mind, Sergeant?" His voice turned abruptly crisp and commanding. "I believe your services are no longer required here. Miss Russo will remain in my custody while you return your attentions to the pursuit of the Princess."

"Very good, Prime Minister," the sergeant replied. "Gentlemen –"

"But – she's very like the Princess, sir, don't you think?" persisted one of the stilt-birds. Alex didn't need to look to know it was the one who had so delighted in poking her. "Do you suppose we might have _half_ the reward?"

"Lester," the Minister responded firmly, albeit with a long-suffering air, "for the third and final time, the reward is offered by the Dark Queen, not our Majesty – and before you ask, _no_, you cannot bring this girl to the Dark Palace! Now be off and about your duties!"

At this order all eleven stilt-birds promptly turned about and filed quickly out of the throne room, albeit not without an inarticulate grumble from the ranks. "You know," Alex mused, "if I were casting this dream, I'd've totally made him Max instead of the cat."

"They're a good lot, the constabulary," the Minister said, either misunderstanding her remark or choosing to ignore it, "but with more than a few rooms to let in their collective brainboxes. Nonetheless, I think they were right to bring you."

"What do you mean?" she puzzled. "I'm not the Princess they're looking for –"

"Indeed," he agreed, "but the resemblance is extraordinary. You are too like her for your presence to be mere coincidence."

"But – I just sort of ended up here," she protested, ignoring the tiny wriggle of worry in her stomach at his words. "I didn't plan to come. I don't really know how I got here – or even exactly where 'here' is!"

"As to the lattermost, I believe I can lend some clarification," the Minister said with a reassuring smile. "Will you stay for a little, Alexandra? You are, of course, free to go at once, but there are things I would show you first if you are willing."

Alex considered a moment. There was no reason _not_ to stay at the palace a little longer. There were no creepy Shadows here, the stilt-birds were gone, and the Prime Minister seemed halfway sane. Not to mention, as dreams went, the part with Serge was probably over anyway – or so she told herself as the mental image of him running after the stilt-birds flared up in the foreground of her mind. If anything, he'd pop up again in an hour or two, tap dancing on a patio or something equally ridiculous.

"It's just 'Alex,'" she told the Minister. "And sure, I can stick around."

He smiled warmly and offered his arm; Alex, confused, looped hers through it like a child first learning to square dance, clumsily linking their elbows and prompting a chuckle from the Minister. "No, Alex, you are refreshingly _not_ the Princess," he said, and – with a cheery call of "Take over, Spiny; you're in charge!" to the hedgehog-snail on the podium – led her to a doorway behind the dais and out of the hall.

_(Author's Note: "Take over, Spiny; you're in charge!" is a direct quote from the corresponding scene in _MirrorMask_ – it's a humorous bit and felt right for inclusion here. Sorry for the borrowing, Neil Gaiman!)_


	7. Chapter Six: Aha!

Author's Note: To the hard-core _MirrorMask _fans – I apologize if this is too much of a departure from the sparse backstory provided in the film/screenplay. When it came time for my rewrite of the scene, I felt like there were a few holes in the story as recounted by the Prime Minister (particularly concerning who the Dark Princess's father was), and as I brainstormed for the chapter, they sort of filled themselves in a way that seemed appropriate to Alex's version of _MirrorMask_,while also making for an interesting little fairytale vignette. Hope you approve.

**Chapter Six: Aha!**

_Nicest, sweetest, upmost in everythingest  
__So charming, very charming  
__Well read, can play the fool  
__No one's ill at ease and put their  
__Deepest Swiss bank trust in you  
__No one saw it coming…  
__~ Imogen Heap, "Aha!"_

The winding corridor beyond the great hall was made of gold-veined marble and lit by broad mullioned windows framed in pure gold and paned with stained glass in every imaginable shade of gold and white crystal. As they walked, arm in arm, the Prime Minister spun his tale for Alex:

"This all began with two sisters, one light and one dark. Nothing more, and nothing less. One was not evil, nor the other good; one was simply a creature of gold and light, of swansdown and crystal and brilliant summer afternoons, while the other was dusk, shadows and starlight and night-blooming flowers – even her eyes were black as pitch – but both sisters were lovely beyond words to describe. One ruled this Kingdom of Light, the other the Land of Shadow.

"As time passed, the Dark Queen grew lonely and sought for a husband a Borderlander, modest in looks but kind, hard-working and good with figures. Captivated by her strange, striking beauty, he readily agreed to the Queen's suit. Upon their marriage, he became Prince Consort, and in a year's time they had a child – the Dark Princess."

Alex perked up a little at this.

"The Dark Queen and her Consort were overjoyed at the birth of the Princess and remained so for several years. The Princess grew – and grew unruly, as little girls, particularly with adoring, indulgent parents, are wont to do."

Alex pointedly studied the floor, though the Prime Minister did not hesitate in his story, look over at her, or give any other indication that his description was meant to apply to her as well.

"The Dark Queen sent for tutors, governesses, nannies – to no avail. The Princess, now seven, had a mind and a tongue of her own. She would wear and do and say what she liked, and neither promises nor pleas nor threats could persuade her to change her mind. Shouting matches commenced, after which the Princess would storm off to one of her favorite haunts while the infuriated Queen shut herself up in her rooms for hours on end. Outside of her rooms, the Queen grew cross and impatient with everyone and everything around her. The Prince Consort subsequently took to treading carefully around the palace and found excuses to be away from it for long periods of time."

Here the Minister did hesitate for a long moment. "One day the Consort returned from an afternoon of hunting to find the little Princess, prettily turned out in curls and lace, sitting dutifully down to an elaborate high tea with the Queen. While the improvement in manners was startling enough to be worrisome, the greatest and most terrifying change was in the Princess's eyes. Once bright and brown and full of mischief, they were now entirely black, even the whites, like a doll's eyes – or an animal's. Like the Queen's."

In spite of herself and the radiating warmth of the palace, Alex gave a little shiver, as though at a remembered horror.

"The Consort was horrified and demanded to know what sort of dark sorcery the Queen had enacted, having long suspected that the many black hours she spent frustrated and furious in her chambers had not been idle ones. When she refused to tell him what she had done, he insisted that she reverse the process and restore the Princess to her former self. At this the Queen flew into a rage; she warned the Consort that he would accept her ruling in this matter or share the Princess's fate of mindless obedience.

"The Consort, truly frightened by his sovereign wife's threat, contemplated the situation and found himself torn. He loved his little daughter, even at her most obstinate, and would not have changed a single hair on her head for any price; to see her as the Queen's pretty puppet was disturbing beyond words to describe. And yet: the Princess was not truly harmed, merely suppressed, after a fashion, into a biddable little beauty that the Queen utterly adored. Where before she had been merely indulgent, the Queen now showered the Princess with gifts, pampered her with pretty dresses and hair ribbons, and kept her always at her side, even in councils and royal audiences. The Consort, fading into oblivion beside this tidal wave of maternal infatuation, at last came to realize that all the Queen had ever really wanted was this sweet doll-child. The Princess, enchanted though she might be, completed her mother, and the Consort, once beloved of them both, was slowly and quietly forgotten. His seat at the foot of the grand dining table was given to the Princess; his throne was removed from the Queen's hall to make room for a smaller, more delicate creation, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his person and belongings were removed from the royal suite and, shortly thereafter, the palace itself.

"And so one night the Consort quietly packed a bag and left to seek sanctuary in the White City. He sought a position as a clerk in the White Queen's household, but his considerable knowledge of statecraft won him a seat on the Queen's Privy Council. In time, impressed by his knowledge and dedication to the Crown, the White Queen appointed him Lord President of that Council, then Prime Minister, and finally, realizing she had quite run out of honors, offered him her hand in marriage."

The Minister smiled at the recollection as Alex looked up at him in mild surprise. "The Dark Queen having dissolved our union promptly following my departure, the White Queen and I were married in due course, and had been wed two years when the Dark Princess came to call. The visit was wholly unanticipated; I had seen neither the Princess nor her mother in nearly ten years, and she offered no explanation for her arrival nor letter of introduction from the Dark Queen. Still, we did not think to question her motives; she was, after all, the White Queen's niece – and my daughter." He stopped fully then, walking as well as talking, as at a critical juncture, and released Alex's arm to push open the elaborately gilded ivory double doors before which they stood.

The room beyond was quietly breathtaking, its ceiling like a sheer white drapery spangled with gentle golden sunbursts that also glinted from the walls, floor, every inch of the room. To one side stood a large round bed, its wrought golden frame flaming out in all directions like a sunburst, and on that bed lay a woman who, for all intents and purposes, might have been made from light.

Inexplicably drawn, Alex left the Minister and tiptoed carefully across the silent chamber. The White Queen – for so she must be – lay still and silent on the palatial sunburst bed, her hair spilling around her face in rich silken waves, like a pool of molten white gold across the pillows of champagne satin, and her fair skin shimmering slightly, like candlelight on pearls. She wore a high-collared, elaborately embroidered robe of palest cream with belling sleeves of gossamer over a shift of soft, undyed linen – an ensemble tenderly chosen for both comfort and elegance. Her hands – the right covered by a bracelet that extended from her wrist to a ring on her middle finger in a delicate net of gold-set diamonds – were tipped with nails of pale gold and lay folded about a single white rosebud on her breast.

Alex gasped softly, not at the woman's ethereal beauty – which was truly stunning, beyond any of the palace's wonders – but rather at the realization that, even with the white-gold hair, fair skin, and her eyes closed, the White Queen was unmistakably Theresa Russo. Lying still and silent, as she had not so long ago, on the kitchen floor.

Alex bent down a little closer, blinking away the sharp prickling of fresh tears, and it seemed for the briefest of moments that the Queen's eyes – Theresa's warm dark eyes – flickered open to look up at her.

"Alex…?" the vision said.

"Mom…?" Alex whispered, her voice breaking in disbelief.

But a moment later there was nothing: the Queen lay still and silent, with no indication that she had been otherwise, even for the span of a heartbeat. It must have been a trick of the light – the shimmering golden light that abounded in every corner of this ivory palace.

Alex sighed, a sound as much of grief as disappointment, and straightened to look up at the Prime Minister, who had come to stand beside her. "Is she dead?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "She's asleep – the sort from which nothing can wake her. We've sent for doctors, magicians, herbwives, greenwitches –"

"Have you tried rounding up a prince to kiss her?" Alex broke in, a little desperately.

The Minister choked on an unexpected bubble of laughter and cleared his throat in a feeble attempt to conceal it. "Excepting the fact that she is a Queen, not a Princess: there are no princes in these parts," he explained. "I was the last, and I surrendered that title when I left the Dark Palace."

"But if you used to be a prince, why can't _you_ kiss her and wake her up?" she wanted to know.

This time he did not bother to restrain the chuckle. "My dear girl, I _have_ tried!" he told her, a note of affectionate exasperation in his voice that was not altogether unfamiliar.

"And?"

"No greater success than the herbwife's sweetest decoction or the doctor's foulest ampules, I'm afraid," he admitted. "The court soothsayer was appalled I'd even tried. Said the rule is carved in stone: Princes and Princesses only – all others need not apply." It was apparent he was trying to make a jest of it, but the sorrow and resignation in his voice were far too palpable.

"So…what happened?" she asked gingerly.

He shrugged helplessly. "The healers have been as unsuccessful in diagnosing the condition as in their attempts to cure it. The soothsayer claims something like this happened many years ago, in the reign of the previous Queens, but the former Prime Minister's records are sparse and lacking in continuity – in short, no help whatsoever."

"But...you must think the Princess had something to do with it," she pointed out, with far more than her usual measure of delicacy, having not forgotten that this proposed archenemy of the state was also the Prime Minister's daughter. "Or, at least, everybody else does."

The Minister stared at her for several moments, and when his gaze finally moved away, Alex couldn't help feeling as though she'd disappointed him in some way. "There is a bit more to the story," he said at last, gesturing toward the door by which they had entered, "and one thing more I would show you before you leave."

Alex nodded. "Of course," she answered, with a calm maturity she'd never before bothered to feign – it seemed appropriate, if not necessary, in this dire context – then leaned down to kiss the Queen's pale cheek. "I'm sorry, Mom," she whispered sadly. "I wish there was something I could do."

The feeling of disappointment increased exponentially as Alex followed the Prime Minister back out into the corridor, though his manner remained all that was cordial. It was as though she was supposed to have said or done something, only no one had bothered to tell her just _what_ that something was.

As they walked on, the Minister picked up his tale once more and continued as if there had been no interruption. "The Queen was delighted at the Princess's arrival – so too, I confess, was I. A wardrobe was ordered, a fortnight of balls and banquets and parties planned, even a portrait was commissioned. The Princess was given a suite of rooms near the Queen's, and for two days the entire court was utterly enchanted by her. She sang like an angel, danced light as a feather, and said the most gracious things to everyone. She was nothing like the headstrong little girl I remembered, but the manners and elegance were more believable – and indeed, less unsettling – in a lovely young woman of seventeen."

He paused before a set of gilded double doors, less ornate than those leading into the Queen's chambers, and said quietly, "On the morning of the third day, the Princess did not come to breakfast, nor the Queen. We found the Queen as you saw her a moment ago, but the Princess had vanished with nary a trace."

He pushed the doors inward and Alex shivered, as much at the temperature of the room within – significantly cooler than the glowing warmth of the rest of the palace – as in foreboding at this turn of the tale. Glancing up at the Prime Minister for confirmation, she walked slowly inside.

Contrary to that first impression, the room was in no way dark or gloomy or even significantly different from the Queen's. The cream-colored walls and draped ceiling were bedecked with golden sunbursts, albeit fewer in number than in the Queen's chamber, and the bed was a plump nest of down, heaped high with gold silk coverlets and inviting ivory pillows.

What caught and held Alex's attention, however, was the portrait, propped on an easel near a gilded dressing table, the subject of which was, she realized immediately, a more elegant – but otherwise identical – version of herself. The girl in the portrait wore a diaphanous white gown that just skimmed her pale shoulders and a little golden sunburst on a chain around her neck. Her long dark hair was clipped back at the temples, though a few soft curls tumbled gracefully over one shoulder, and her eyes…even rendered in oils, they were startling. Pitch black, like an old-fashioned doll's eyes, albeit with the tiniest spark of light in each to indicate life and alertness.

"You see now, I think, why the constabulary brought you to me," the Minister said quietly, and Alex responded with a mute nod, being momentarily incapable of speech. "Though, as I said before, you are more _unlike_ the Princess than you are alike. In truth –" here he gave a small, self-indulgent smile – "you are rather what I had once imagined she would grow to be: feisty, forthright, and so unaware of your fine looks as to half neglect them for more rewarding pursuits."

Uncertain whether this was meant as a genuine complement or gentle teasing, Alex looked sharply back at the Minister and received a wink in reply. "In my defense," she said sternly, though already her lips betrayed her with an answering smile, "I didn't exactly plan to be out in my pajamas."

"As I imagine you and the Princess are of a size, you are welcome to exchange your apparel for whichever of her garments you choose," he told her, still smiling. "The Queen, as I said, commissioned a full wardrobe upon her arrival…none of which is ever likely to be needed now." His smile faded, and with it Alex's impulse to make a cheeky inquiry about boots in said wardrobe.

"So…the Queen is asleep," she thought aloud after a long silence. "The Princess is gone, and…you're not sure what she did or how to fix it?"

"We have some very small idea of how to fix it," he said, effectively confirming the rest of her assessment. "In short: finding the charm."

"Charm?" Alex echoed hopefully, her heart giving a little unexpected skip at the prospect. "You mean a spell? I know tons; I can…" But here she trailed off, heart sinking as she recalled her failed spellcastings in the street and Serge's remark about magic in this place requiring "the right artifact." "I can try, I guess," she said, unusually reluctant to promise something she wasn't sure she could deliver – and yet, strangely, equally reluctant not to try.

"That's very kind of you, Alex, but…well, I'm afraid I couldn't even tell you where to begin," he admitted sadly. "You see, only the Queen knows exactly what and where the charm is. There is no written record to give us any clue – in fact, all the persons you saw back in the great hall are bringing their best guesses to speed our search."

"A _chicken_?" she said dryly, incredulous at the memory.

"I'm relatively certain it isn't the chicken," he assured her, smiling once more.

"But…it's a _thing_, not a spell? You know," she added at his frown of confusion, "magic words, potion, puff of smoke, result?"

"It's…a gateway," he said after a thoughtful pause, "the scales upon which the whole world balances. It was used by the Creator to bring life to this world many years ago. That is all we know for certain."

"So…it's big?" she hazarded a guess.

He shook his head. "I wish I knew."

"Do you think the Princess could have taken it?"

He quirked an eyebrow at this; clearly, it was an avenue of thought he had recently traveled himself. "Perhaps," he said, "and perhaps not. The Queen made a confidante of her almost at once, and if she sought the charm, she may well have derived its location and other particulars from Her Majesty – but I hardly see how it would have benefitted her. Even had she thought to steal it for the Dark Queen; a balance gives no advantage to either side."

Alex looked at the portrait again, at the beautiful, black-eyed villainess who was, like it or not, as much her alter-ego as Serge was Justin's. She looked at the Prime Minister – intelligent and ridiculous all at once, just like her father – then thought of the White Queen, formed of light and life and wholeness, but trapped in slumber by some strange dark means that could neither be explained nor reversed. And it occurred to her – belatedly, as do the very best of epiphanies – that what she had perceived earlier as the Minister's disappointment was in fact a combination of her own frustrations, her futility in the face of her mother's illness – and a medicinal dose of self-reflection.

It had never really been a matter for decision, but the conviction with which she spoke next was resounding. "I'll do it," she said solemnly, almost an oath. "I'll find the charm and wake the Queen."

Had she fostered any doubt that this was the right thing to do, the sheer hope on the Minister's face would have obliterated it at once. He made no further protest but reached out to catch her hands in his. "You have our undying gratitude, Alex Russo," he said fervently, "though I imagine you may need a bit more from us before commencing this quest?"

She cocked her head to one side as she contemplated his offer, her lips curving in a cheeky smile. "I don't suppose you have any boots?"


	8. Chapter Seven: Daylight Robbery

**Chapter Seven: Daylight Robbery**

_Pleasure moment, thinking big, thinking positive_  
_And itching to get on with it_  
_It's all stops out…_  
_~ Imogen Heap, "Daylight Robbery"_

Alex returned to the Princess's bedroom in decidedly good spirits, bolstered by her promise to the Prime Minister. However out of character, a quest to find the charm was exactly the sort of thing that happened in dreams – at least, in the really good, interesting ones that you couldn't wait to share with someone the following morning. And of course, she could hardly help wondering, childishly or otherwise, whether waking the White Queen might somehow benefit her mother, whose surgery must be taking place as the dream progressed. At the least, it was a sufficiently encouraging thought to banish her momentary qualms at having volunteered to do something this noble and heroic singlehanded.

The Princess's white gown and sunburst necklace lay at the foot of the golden bed, no doubt where she had left them before making her escape, and Alex paused a moment to pick up the gown and hold it up to herself before the mirror at the dressing table. The fabric swirled and shimmered about her like fresh snow, then settled softly against her figure – without a doubt, a perfect fit – and she wasted a wistful minute, perhaps two, glancing between her reflection and the Princess's portrait and longing madly to be a proper girl. The longing passed, of course, not quite as swiftly as she expected, and she continued on to the tall wooden wardrobe, though not without first putting on the little sunburst necklace. It felt right, settling warmly in the hollow of her throat, and she wanted a tangible reminder of the Queen and this glorious palace of gold and light, whatever else might happen.

The wardrobe, to Alex's surprise and mild chagrin, was filled almost entirely with delicate garments in shades of white, cream, and gold, nearly all of them dresses, most made of silk, and all richly trimmed with lace, embroidery, and/or tiny crystal beads. "And they say disco is dead," she murmured, amused, as she moved aside two such gowns to reveal an unexpected grouping of garments in bright peacock blue: the brilliant hue of a summer noon sky and thereby, perfectly appropriate in this collection. Alex grinned as she took out a knee-length shift dress to eye it more carefully. "That's more like it!"

In the end, she paired the bright blue shift – featuring a ruched bodice and three flounces on the skirt, but otherwise unembellished and therefore very nearly ordinary – with velvety suede knee-boots – her primary objective, and far quicker to locate than a simple dress – in an impossible shade of gold, and finished the look with a feather-soft crocheted coat of iridescent cream, belted at the waist with a gold cord. It was a little long on her, falling almost to her knees, and she wondered briefly whether it had been borrowed from the Queen; it certainly echoed the proportional difference between herself and her mother.

Finally, she returned to give her hair a quick brushing at the dressing table and paused to contemplate her new reflection. She didn't look any bit more like the Princess – which was just as well; in the interest of time, she didn't think she could afford another arrest – but she didn't quite look like Alex Russo, either – at least, not like Alex Russo in her oldest pajamas after being chased by black goo, thrown into the street by a flying atlas, and dumped on the floor by a company of stilt-birds. All that aside, though, in these clothes and in this light, there was something a little otherworldly – maybe even prettier – about her appearance. _Almost like…_ She laughed at the realization. This new version of her dream self was to her what Serge was to Justin: _stranger and better looking!_ Grinning at the thought, she pocketed a hair tie "just in case," tossed her pajamas and slippers into the back of the closet, and emerged from the Princess's room to seek the Prime Minister.

She found him in the corridor just outside, being addressed by a gnome of sorts – a blunt-masked person, several inches shorter than Alex, with a stubby horn in the center of his forehead – dressed in white-and-silver livery. As she approached, the gnome handed the Minister a piece of paper, saying, "I'm so very sorry for the interruption, Prime Minister, but the gentleman was most insistent that this be presented to you immediately." Having done so, he gave a little bow and retreated hurriedly down the corridor.

The Minister glanced over the paper, raising his brows in surprise, then turned a curious, almost amused gaze on Alex. "Miss Russo," he said mildly, "have you any idea why I've just been handed a petition for a stay of execution in your name?"

"Stay of execution?" she repeated, eyes widening. "Did I need one?"

"Off the record?" He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, smiling. "Not at all. We don't execute people in the White City – never have, in fact. But someone out there either thinks we do or was worried we'd make an exception in your case." He peered down at the page again. "Notarized by…Valentine? Good man! I haven't had one of his macchiatos in ages. Once this is settled, I'll have to take Her Majesty back to the café…"

He handed Alex the paper with a chuckle. "You may as well keep this. After all, you never know."

She looked down at the page, which was little more than a piece of heavily smudged copy paper, across which had been – frantically? Furiously? Or just plain sloppily? – scrawled in black ink:

MOTION TO STAY EXECUTION

_A Private Citizen of the White City hereby beseeches His Grace the Prime Minister, in the regrettable indisposition of Her Majesty the Queen, __to stay the execution of one _Alexandra Margarita Russo_, arrested for capital crimes unknown, pending further evidence of said crimes, the provision of appropriate legal counsel to the accused, and a full courtroom trial by a jury of her peers._

_Notarized on this 9__th__ day of October by one  
__Valentine  
__Gentleman Entrepreneur and Very Important Man  
__8 Fish Street  
__White City_

Bewildered, Alex looked up at the Minister, but before she could ask anything further there was a small commotion from the corridor down which the gnome had departed, and a few seconds later he reappeared, half running on his stubby legs, with Serge walking quickly behind him. All visions of ridiculous tap dancing displays on patios promptly vanished from Alex's mind. (Well, most of them, anyway…)

He looked far less elegant than when first she had seen him in the street outside the Sub Station. Though he still wore the cream-colored suit, there was a rumpled, dusty quality about it now; his jaunty red ascot was askew, and his black hair tousled as with much dragging-through of hands, but he still carried the bejeweled cane, and there was no alteration to his mask or the eye patch.

"A gentleman to see you, Prime Minister!" the gnome blurted, wheezing. "I told him to wait, but he insisted he would speak to you directly."

"Prime Minister, sir," Serge began in response, a little breathlessly, "Forgive the interruption, but I must ask…" He trailed off then, as though just noticing Alex's presence for the first time. "Alex…?" His voice faltered a little. "Are you all right?"

In light of the context, her fine new clothes, and the companionable proximity of the Prime Minister Minister, his concern was ridiculous, and yet she didn't feel like laughing. On the contrary, she was so happy to see him that her chest hurt. "Yeah," she said softly, wishing like mad that she could see his eyes – providing they existed – and the expression they held.

As if in response to this momentary softening, her sarcasm abruptly switched back on and she added, "Well, of course. What'd you expect: I'd be hung, drawn, and quartered inside of an hour?"

"Something like that," he replied, unsmiling.

"Not at all," the Prime Minister interjected pleasantly. "I fear the constabulary may have caused some undue concern about our justice system. Even had Miss Russo been the Princess they sought, no execution would have followed."

Serge's shoulders – _Justin's shoulders,_ Alex couldn't help thinking – visibly relaxed at this. "In that case, sir," he addressed the Minister, "I was wondering whether I might be permitted to take the, erm, accused into my custody?"

The Minister shrugged. "Provided you do not mean to impede her plans, I have no objection, though I would ask to know your name."

Alex answered for him: "Oh, this is Serge. He's a gentleman – and, apparently, an adventurer."

"This girl is an associate – my business partner, as it were," Serge added, turning his masked face toward Alex in what felt very much like a pointed glare, then back again to regard the Minister. "I am prepared to pay whatever bail might be required and will sign my good name as a pledge of her safe and timely return –"

The Minister held up a hand in protest. "Please. This young lady is in no trouble, young sir – far from it – though I would be most grateful if you did take it upon yourself to look after her, at least for the foreseeable future. She's undertaken a bit of state business and, being a newcomer, is in need of an experienced guide."

"You don't say," Serge replied through his teeth, turning his face toward Alex once more before adding politely: "Of course, Prime Minister."

"I'm much obliged." The Minister shook Serge's hand, then Alex's. "I wish you both safe travels and the very best of luck. If you require anything further, please don't hesitate to ask at the office of the palace steward."

"Actually, I think we're good," Alex told him with a small smile. "Thanks, though."

"The White City is in your debt, Alex," the Minister said, catching up her hand once more and giving a little bow. Somewhere in the background, Serge made a sound that was half scoff of disbelief and half choking on an appalled retort. "We look forward to your return.

"And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to court." The words were grand but Alex detected a hint of regret, as though the Minister would much rather be gallivanting off after the charm with them. "Harry here – " he gestured at the gnome – "will show you out." With a flutter of his voluminous white sleeves, the Minister turned and headed down the corridor toward the great hall, leaving Alex and Serge – and one very disgruntled gnome – alone at last.

"So…" Serge smiled broadly. "Alexandra Margarita, eh?"

"Zip it, Pepe," she retorted, albeit with more affection than animosity.

"I have no idea what that means."

"Sure you don't," she muttered, mentally reminding herself that she'd determined an hour ago – even before realizing this was all a dream – that no one here was really who they looked like. "How'd you figure it out, anyway?"

"Asked the court clerk, of course." (He pronounced "clerk" as "clark," like a pretentious Brit.) "Anyway, I wasn't taking the mickey, I just – it's prettier than I'd expected," he admitted. "Come to it, so are you."

Her heart gave a funny little skip and she looked up at him, startled. "What?"

"Given the right attire, of course," he amended casually, effectively dismissing his previous remark.

"Oh." She glanced down at her outfit, then back at him. "Is this it?"

"No." He frowned, considering. "I'm not entirely certain what is. Less frill and more flare, I think."

Alex thought of the alternative choices in the Princess's wardrobe and wondered whether she might not have been ahead to keep her pajamas and just add the boots. "Great. Thanks."

"Don't mistake me, though: this _is_ better," he assured her. "One can actually tell you're a young woman of some fineness of figure."

The gnome, waiting some paces away and shifting his feet, impatiently cleared his throat.

"Close enough to a compliment for me," Alex told Serge. "Let's go."

As they followed the gnome through the winding maze of gold-veined marble, she asked the pointless but niggling question: "So what are you doing here, _really_?"

"I thought if I was patient, I might get to come to your execution," he answered dryly.

"Oh really? Is that what this – " she held up the stay of execution, waving it demonstratively in his face – "was all about? Cuz for a moment, I kind of got the feeling that you were worried about me."

"Worried about myself, more like," was the reply. "You're a third of my street show, at least for the present moment. Didn't want to waste my investment."

"Oh hush." She stopped walking, and a moment later he did as well, turning back to face her. "This may be the sweetest thing you've ever done for me, Justin," she said.

"Serge," he corrected quietly.

"Right. Sorry." She stared at him for a long, long moment while she struggled with an almost overwhelming urge to take the three steps forward and hug him. "Thank you," she said at last in a very small voice.

He acknowledged this with a gently crooked smile as he took the three steps back to her. "Don't go too soppy on me," he warned. "If I really cared, I'd've got you a pardon."

She quirked a brow. "Meaning?"

"A pardon would've got you off scot-free," he explained, tilting her chin with his left hand. "A stay of execution only forestalls the inevitable."

He grinned at that, but Alex couldn't find it in her to echo the expression or even make the expected smart retort. They were standing very close together, their faces a few inches apart, and for one insane moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. And if she would like it if he did.

Instead, he brushed the tip of her nose with his thumb – an affectionate gesture one might use with a particularly engaging child. Alex wrinkled her nose at the touch but didn't pull away; rather, suddenly curious, she caught his wrist before he could lower his hand again. It was the first time she had deliberately touched him, and her heart gave another funny skip at the feel of his wrist under her hand…surprisingly warm and solid for a figment of her imagination.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Instead of tendering a verbal reply, she brought his wrist to her eye level and turned the hand – his left – palm upward. The entire palm was ink-smudged – corresponding with the smudges on the stay of execution – and there was a large inkstain between the pointer and middle fingers.

"You're left-handed," she said.

"It's not a crime," he countered with the slightest measure of indignation.

"No, but it's weird." She released his wrist, frowning. Serge being left-handed – like Justin – was only to be expected, and yet, in this strange dreamworld, it felt wrong. Too real, almost.

The gnome cleared his throat again – louder this time – and they turned as one to follow him, the momentary awkwardness forgotten.

"So what's this state business the Minister mentioned?" Serge wanted to know.

She chuckled. "Apparently, I volunteered to _do_ something."

He gave a stage-worthy mock-gasp.

"I know, right?" she agreed, unoffended. "But…you know how the White Queen is trapped in some kind of enchanted sleep? Well…she looks a lot like my mom, and…my mom is sick." This was, of course, a major understatement with myriad minced details, yet it somehow felt sufficient. "I figured…" she hesitated, entirely aware of how ridiculous her theory would sound spoken aloud and yet unable to completely discount it, especially with Serge awaiting an explanation of her motives. "I thought: if I can wake the Queen in this dream, maybe it'll help my mom," she confessed. "So, um…that's what I'm going to try to do."

He didn't laugh or mock this notion; in fact, he didn't say anything till they'd walked three very long stretches of corridor, and when he finally did answer, his voice sounded strange. "You think this is a dream?" he asked.

She snorted. "You're Justin with a real eye patch and a convincing British accent. What part of that could ever happen in real life?"

He ignored the jibe. "So…you're helping the Queen because she looks like your mother?" he wondered aloud, turning a little to face her. "Hate to say it, Alex, but: that sounds disturbingly…altruistic of you."

"Translation?"

He smiled – it was very nearly a smirk. "Selfless."

She winced at the word. "Ugh. Not really, you know; I just…don't want to take any chances."

"How do you figure?"

She shrugged. "Well, you're not really Justin, but that's no reason not to pick on you as if you are."

"Point taken," he conceded with the barest hint of amusement. "So: where do we start?"

"We need to find a charm," she told him. "Well, _the_ charm, that created the kingdoms of Light and Shadow and keeps them balanced. It's a thing, not a spell, and…um…only the White Queen knows what it is or where it's hidden," she finished, a little feebly.

"Sounds like we need more information," he ventured, a tiny impish smile playing about his lips. "Where do you suppose we should go for that?"

"Well, even the Prime Minister doesn't know any more than what I just told you," she thought aloud, "so, um…we should probably start at the…you know. The place with, um…books."

He stopped walking and turned to face her fully, his smile threatening to burst into a snicker. "You wouldn't be talking about the _library_, by chance, would you, love?"

She shot him a death glare that was as good as an admission, and his restraint promptly crumbled with an outright guffaw. "Really, Alex?" he choked through the laughter. "Are you going to apologize to that poor atlas that gave you a ride, then? Last I saw, it was limping through the air and sobbing pages left and right…"

She scowled in reply, which only served to heighten his merriment. "Come on," she grumbled. "Let's get this over with."


	9. Chapter Eight: Loose Ends

_Author's Note: This chapter contains a small and essentially insignificant departure from the original _MirrorMask_ storyline that perhaps only fans of the original will catch but hopefully all will enjoy, or at least, be okay with. _;D_ That bit sort of wrote itself, so I'm hoping you find the notion agreeable. Very, VERY sorry for the delays, but I did pack up and move 1600 miles cross-country, so I'm thinking I have an excuse for one lapsed month. _

**Chapter Eight: Loose Ends**

_Doing everything by halves  
__You got a real flair with excuses  
__Meeting someone at the bar  
__Where loose ends still have uses  
__It's complicated…  
__~ Imogen Heap, "Loose Ends"  
_

The library – a winding, precarious tower of gigantic book-shaped slabs, stacked harum-scarum on top of each other – was located in a courtyard of pearly cobblestone, barely a few minutes' walk from the palace. Alex's bravado abruptly faded at the front door and she hung back, eyeing the brass handle as though it might bite her.

Serge, naturally, noticed at once and gave a chuckle of amusement at her distress. "Shall I hold your hand then?" he offered cheekily.

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted, seizing the handle, swinging the heavy oak door outward, and stepping inside in one swift, mostly painless motion that successfully caught Serge, following behind her, halfway between the jamb and the door.

He gave a startled little cry, more of indignation than pain, but Alex had no opportunity to enjoy it. If the sight of the building itself was unsettling, the interior – lined floor to 30-foot ceiling with racks upon racks of books – was a downright nightmare. Before she could turn around, shove Serge out of the way, and make a run for it, however, there came a keening, whimpering sound, seemingly from all around them, and all the books within Alex's direct line of sight fluttered noisily on their shelves to lie flat, effectively disappearing from view.

"It seems your reputation has preceded us," Serge declared, dryly. "This could complicate matters."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a man – or rather, this dreamworld's patchwork semblance of one – came scurrying out from between two rows of books, shouting in the very loudest voice that could still pass for library-appropriate volume: "You there! No entrance! No admission."

Alex grinned. His head was a trapezoid of scrap metal, with empty washers for eyes and a fluttering wing nut for a mouth, and the neck reaching out of his billowing bright green robe was a dusty bit of vacuum hose, but his voice was unmistakable.

"Mr. Laritate!" she veritably chirped. "I was wondering when you were going to show up!"

"Young lady," he said sternly, tapping one finger – by appearances, a starched length of coiled phone cord – against his mouth to demand silence, "I'm afraid I can't admit you onto the premises."

"Fair enough," she replied. Turning to Serge, she conceded, "Hey, we tried," and had taken one step back toward the entrance when he caught her arm.

Bending toward her a little so the Librarian wouldn't hear, he murmured, "Queen. Mother."

Alex turned back as suddenly as she had turned away. "We're here for the Queen Mother," she told the Librarian grandly.

Serge snickered and she gave him a sound behind-the-back smack to the stomach. "For the Queen, I mean," she amended, with a satisfied smile at Serge's resultant gasp.

"A likely story," the Librarian scoffed.

"Master Librarian, if you will," Serge spoke up through a wheeze, "I did collect this young lady at the palace only moments ago."

The wingnut-mouth drooped in a semblance of a disapproving frown. "The Hall of Justice, I presume?"

"Well, I can't deny it," Serge replied airily, stepping a little away from Alex's backswing, "but she _was_ in a private audience with the Prime Minister himself when I arrived, and he will confirm the particulars of the errand which brings her here."

At this, Alex produced the stay of execution from one of her shift's cleverly hidden hip pockets and waved it demonstratively toward the Librarian. "And I even have one of these, Mister, so don't get any ideas!"

"Yes, perhaps before we go any further," Serge interjected, "I should explain that she isn't who she looks like – and, just so we're clear, neither am I."

Alex looked back at him at this odd turn of phrase, but as usual, it was impossible to tell what expression his eyes held, let alone if he had any.

"Are you suggesting that she isn't the young lady who threatened our most comprehensive Borderland atlas with a fate so terrible that it molted down to three pages and is now hiding in the attic?" the Librarian demanded.

"Er…no, actually, that _would_ be her," Serge admitted, with more than a hint of relish. "But she's not the Dark Princess, for whatever that's worth."

"Little enough." The Librarian snorted. "The Princess, for all her alleged evils, certainly never laid a hand on one of my books."

"See?" Serge said cheerfully, turning toward Alex. "You two really _do_ have things in common. No wonder they arrested you!"

"Arrested?" the Librarian echoed, in a faint voice implying an onrush of horror.

"Thanks for opening _that_ can of worms!" she hissed at a seraphically smiling Serge, then, turning back to the Librarian, explained hurriedly, "It was all a matter of mistaken identity, and it's really a very exciting story, but we don't have time to tell it right now. We need to find information about the charm – the one that created this place and keeps everything in balance."

"Ah." The Librarian's proverbial feathers settled; clearly, an academic query, even from a supposed criminal, was something he could and must deal with. "Then you want History, Geography even."

"What about Religion?" Serge suggested, warming to the topic in a decidedly Justin-like manner.

"Indeed," the Librarian agreed. "We've an entire third-floor wing devoted to –"

"Time out," Alex broke in. "We don't have time for a research paper; what we _need_ is a really useful book." This effectively confused them both to silence, so she added helpfully, "You know: pictures, large print, no pesky charts or indexes. You can just open it up and find the information you need."

The Librarian contemplated this a moment while Serge leaned over to inquire, mildly aghast, "Are you insane?"

"My dream," she replied pleasantly. "Thought I'd try the direct approach."

"Well, now," the Librarian was already saying, "yes, we do have something that might fit those qualifications, but I'm afraid the Paperbacks are shelved on the top floor, currently in a tizzy because of the Borderland atlas. Queen's business or no, miss, I simply couldn't let you go up there." He paused thoughtfully. "The young man could go alone, I suppose."

"Works for me," Alex affirmed, grinning at her success – an almost effortless evasion of any real work. "I'll just kick back here while you take him up. Any chance of a latte while I wait?"

The Librarian gave a scandalized gasp, while Serge, equally appalled, exclaimed, "Alex, this is a _library_, not a bistro!"

She waved a hand dismissively. "Well, you say 'potato.' Anyway, if I'm supposed to go around questing and being all noble, I'm gonna need some serious caffeine."

Serge groaned, studied the skyscraping ceiling for a moment, then conceded with a sigh that was equal parts growl: "Right. Take a left out the front doors, head back toward the palace, and turn down the main street where the atlas dropped you. Café du Cirque is Number 8. Their espresso is Shadow-grown across the Border and hand-harvested by Monkeybirds."

Alex gave a snort of laughter.

"Something funny?" he wondered, unamused.

"Well, just the way you said 'Monkeybirds' with a straight face and that accent…" she trailed off, grinning at the disapproval that veritably radiated from him. "Never mind."

"Pulls the best crèma in the White City," he continued as though she hadn't interrupted. "Ask for Helena."

Alex raised a hand. She fancied Serge rolled his eyes – assuming, of course, that they existed behind the mask and/or patch.

"Yes, Your Highness?" he asked dutifully.

"Money?"

He was already taking a folded bill from his trouser pocket. "You're summarily useless, you know," he muttered, handing it over.

She looked down at the bill curiously: cream-colored paper printed in gold, with a funny cursive L-shape next to a number 10, opposite an excellent sketch of the White Queen, whose open eyes were – as she had anticipated – every bit Theresa Russo's. "Should've thought about that before you got me a stay of execution," Alex teased, then with a final grin, she turned and left the library.

She found the main street easily and followed a school of silvery fish toward a tall building of cool, dull green stone that looked a bit like a handheld vacuum cleaner, upended and set on a bird-foot base. Its front door, a cheery shade of plum, sat squarely beneath a sign scattered with abstract paintings of sphinxes and masks, through the center of which flowed the text "Café du Cirque. No. 8." Satisfied she was in the right place, Alex opened the door and went inside.

She found herself in a wide, most empty dining room, wallpapered in a mossy green with subtle, sporadic lighting from candelabra that branched out from the otherwise plain walls. To one end was an unlit hearth, around which sat a few worn leather armchairs and a coffee table; on the other, backed against a staircase, was the counter and espresso paraphernalia, and scattered between were mismatched bistro tables and spindly metal chairs.

Bending down to wipe one of those tables, facing away, was a dark-haired young woman, not much taller than Alex but stunningly slim, with willowy long legs in skinny dark trousers that were very nearly normal "real life" street attire – if not a bit _more _fashionable – paired with a short-sleeved, body-skimming tunic of cream-colored satin that bared equally willowy arms.

"Um, excuse me," Alex said, approaching the girl. "Are you Helena?"

The girl looked up, causing Alex to start in surprise. Unlike everyone else in this dreamworld – save for the White Queen, the Prime Minister, and Alex herself – she had a face: a real, proper, unmasked, utterly lovely face. "Yeah, I'm Helena," she replied in a voice – soft, with an English accent – as perfect as the rest of her.

"But – you have a face," Alex blurted. "I mean, a real one, like me."

Helena chuckled gently. "I _had_ spotted that."

She looked to be in her early twenties, with light olive skin that hinted at a Mediterranean heritage, enormous dark eyes, and widely spaced high cheekbones, tapering down to a delicate chin Her dark brown hair, luminous even in the low light, was drawn back in a careless chignon, leaving a few long wavy wisps loose to frame her flawless face – and the tunic, viewed from the front, dipped in a wide, low "V" all the way to its empire waist, revealing a perfect line of throat, collarbones, and a hint of that slight model cleavage that required no supporting garments and somehow still drove men wild.

Looking at her, Alex suddenly felt like a 14-year-old visiting high school for the first time – gauche and awkward and hopelessly out of place – and found herself wanting nothing more than to turn tail and run away, to find a restroom and hide her burning face behind a solid stall door. She knew that feeling too well – much better than she ever would have admitted openly. Before her first day at Tribeca Prep, she'd spent hours coordinating the perfect look – outfit, hairstyle, the whole bit – only to walk in on that long-awaited morning and realize she looked like a sixth grader. All the girls milling in the hallway – particularly the two talking to Justin – had had an air of sophistication and elegance that set them worlds apart from Alex, even though they couldn't have been more than a year or two older than her. But worst of all, that awful moment had shown her just how very far beyond her Justin was at this school. At home, he might be a geek in supremely ugly sweaters, but standing in that corridor, talking with his classmates, somehow he belonged to that world and to those sophisticated, elegant people. If she tried to tease him there, _she_ would be the one who looked stupid.

Standing in the Café du Cirque in an outfit cobbled together from the Dark Princess's leavings, Alex relieved every twinge of that painful memory, right down to the Justin part. She thought of Serge – of his flapper-beau suit, eye patch and ridiculous bejeweled cane – then looked at the modish, model-perfect girl in front of her, and the equation neatly solved itself in her mind, with a cruel twisting feeling in the region of her heart that almost took her breath away. She wondered briefly if, as the person having the dream, this was something she could change, only to recall that, in dreams, as in life, you never get to choose who people fall for.

"Okay, then," she said with forced brightness, almost choking on the words. "Um…Serge said to ask for you. I'm supposed to get a couple drinks with your best-crèma-in-the-City, hand-harvested-by-Monkeybirds espresso."

Helena stared back at her curiously, almost smiling. "Okay," she said after a moment. "Queen of Light or Queen of Shadow?"

Alex frowned, both at the situation and in puzzlement at the question. "Um…Queen of Light?" she guessed.

"They're lattes," Helena explained, smiling. "Our signature drinks. And Queen of Light is lovely – since you're a first timer, I'd definitely recommend it."

"Does it come with the world's best crèma, etcetera?" Alex asked dully, not caring in the least but feeling compelled to complete the errand as assigned.

"Of course."

"Sold," she said, with a feeble hint of her characteristic spunk. "And Serge'll have…um, his usual, I guess."

Helena gave a chuckle at that, a rich, infectious sound that almost made Alex not hate her. "Oh no," she said in a voice brimming with merriment. "If he's sending a pretty girl to get his drinks, he's at the mercy of my whims."

"Works for me," Alex agreed, thawing a little. However patronizing, Helena had called her pretty – and was going to do something at least moderately unpleasant to Serge. The thought was immensely cheering.

Helena crossed to the counter and dipped behind it, setting out two cups and assembling various bottles and jars while Alex leaned on the counter, resuming her time-honored role of casual observer. "So, are you his girlfriend?" Helena asked.

Alex's hold on the counter slipped and she flailed about a moment to recover her pose as well as her dignity. "No," she said quickly. "I thought _you_ were."

Helena looked up from her drinks with a surprised little laugh. "Serge and I? Yeah…no."

A sudden bubble of answering laughter swirled its way up Alex's throat, accompanied by a flush of inexplicable giddiness. "Well, of course not," she said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, grinning all the while. "You're too cute."

"Well, there is that," Helena agreed with a teasing smile. "I mean, don't get me wrong; Serge is a great bloke, but I've already got one of my own."

The flush of giddiness lodged itself warmly in Alex's stomach.

"Slightly madder," Helena admitted after a moment, her attention returning to the drinks, "but easily as good-looking."

"Nice," Alex replied, and meant it.

If Helena noticed the excessive enthusiasm of Alex's response, only the ghost of a lingering smile at the corners of her mouth betrayed it. As she dispensed small measures of cream- and gold-toned sauces – _white chocolate and caramel?_ Alex guessed – into one of the cups, she asked Alex, "So, if you're not his girlfriend, how do you two know each other?"

"It's a, um, recent acquaintance," Alex told her. "We're sort of working together on something."

"Oh, you mean the street shows?" Helena said, adding a purplish-brown liquid to the cream-and-gold swirl in the cup. "They're a little bizarre for my tastes, but Serge knows the best concertina player in the City."

"Yeah…not anymore."

Helena quirked a brow at that but didn't rise to the bait; instead, she moved down to a little grinder and expertly filled and tamped a single-shot portafilter, then fitted it into the espresso machine, itself an inspired combination of antique charm and modern efficiency. Reaching under the counter, she brought out a glass carafe of milk and poured a measure into a small steam pitcher – only to pause halfway, as at a realization, and look up at Alex. "Wait – then you're the stay of execution girl."

"How do you know about that?" Alex asked, more than a little surprised.

"Um, because Serge came in here about an hour ago, frantic, and asked my boyfriend to notarize it for him?" Helena replied, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth with an impishness that threatened to spill out into a grin. "Valentine always said he was a very important man, but it's hard to take anyone seriously when they're speaking in an Irish accent – not to mention, juggling." She glanced over her shoulder at something, then back at Alex, her dark eyes dancing. "I mean, he got us the permits for this place in, like, ten minutes, but a stay of execution's another kettle of onions entirely. I take it, it worked then?" she said, returning to her steam pitcher.

"Didn't really need it," Alex admitted, biting back her curiosity at Helena's account of the matter. "I think he's a little disappointed."

"I've never seen Serge quite that worked up," Helena told her, fitting the pitcher under the machine's steam wand. "Not even…" She frowned delicately, as though debating whether or not to disclose her thoughts, and settled instead for: "Well, never." She turned on the steamer then, and the resultant hissing and gurgling eliminated the possibility of conversation for the next approximate minute.

The milk being sufficiently frothed, Helena pulled the espresso shot into the cup of white, gold, and purplish, added the milk, stirred it several times, then retrieved – presumably from the under-counter cooler – a silver dispenser can and topped off the drink with a hearty whorl of whipped cream. From one of the myriad little jars on the counter she took and added a sprinkle of what looked like purple grains of rice, then a shimmer of glittering gold sugar, then handed the cup to Alex with a smile. "This one's yours."

Alex sniffed lightly at the garnish – even to a less-than-scholarly girl such as herself, the fragrance was unmistakable. "It smells like lavender."

"It is," Helena said. "There's a bit mixed into the drink as well." She flashed a grin of Alex-caliber slyness. "Now: for Serge's."

She knocked the grounds from Alex's shot into a box on the counter, then, taking a different portafilter, filled and tamped another shot – seemingly a double, if the twin spouts were any gauge – at the grinder. She fitted this into the machine, then began mixing ingredients in the second cup as Alex looked on with interest. First, and obviously, a golden dollop of honey from a large clear jar, then, from a tiny brown bottle, two drops of something at once spiky and resinous that Alex couldn't begin to guess at. Over this Helena poured a measure of bright pink syrup, a tiny measuring spoon of what looked like water but smelled of a rose garden, even across the counter, and then the tiniest pinch of a curious red powder. This being done, she opened a small canister, from which came an instantly identifiable spicy fragrance.

"Is that cinnamon?" Alex asked suddenly.

Helena paused, a pinch of the spice between her thumb and forefinger. "Yeah."

Alex hesitated, wondering whether she was being paranoid or outright insane, and decided, if she'd gone this far, she might as well follow through. "Um…can you leave it out?"

Helena raised her brows in frank curiosity.

"Just in case," Alex added, as though that explained everything – and somehow, madly, it sufficed. Helena shrugged good-naturedly and dusted the cinnamon back into its jar, then turned to a little sink on the back counter to wash any lingering spice residue from her fingers.

"It won't…I mean, will that ruin it?" Alex wondered, almost apologetic.

Helena gave her a crooked smile. "You tell me." She pulled the double-shot into the cup, added the steamed milk, and stirred the drink – now a dull shade of rose-pink – thoroughly, then held it up to Alex for consideration.

Alex leaned in. The drink smelled of rose, soft spices, and that strange resinous substance she still couldn't identify – but which, for a split second, brought her back to that moment a lifetime ago when she sat in bed, holding Justin's pillow to her face. "What _is_ that?" she asked.

"Something I think he'll like if he's sending you to get his coffee," Helena answered cryptically, setting the drink on the counter for its finishing touches.

Alex groaned in protest at the implication, but it was somehow unconvincing. "It's not like that, you know," she said as Helena topped the drink with whipped cream, golden bits of something at once flaky and syrupy, and a sprinkle of dried flowers. "I just – I wanted a coffee and…he paid."

"Case in point." Helena winked, capping Serge's drink with a lid and handing one to Alex for her own.

"Right, you're in with the small talk," stage-whispered an Irish voice from the end of the counter. "Now sell her a scone."

Helena brought a hand to her mouth to cover a grin, but Alex turned toward the voice and saw a tall, lanky young man crouching just inside a doorway at the end of the counter. He wore a mask much like Serge's, though his reached to the hairline and ended in a thicket of spiky tufts, matching the texture of his dark blond hair. An odd brown stripe, the width of the mask's pin-sized eyeholes, extended from his forehead to his chin, which bore a spiky goatee of the same material as his mask – a jarring feature, considering that his lips and cheeks were otherwise normal and made of flesh. His clothing – another surprise – was as conventionally fashionable as Helena's: a navy blue military-style sweater, buttoned like a peacoat over a white t-shirt and pushed up to the elbows, and dark grey skinny jeans. Alex wondered idly if he had started out as foppish as Serge and Helena had worked him around to this look.

Helena shook her head in a silent chuckle, pointedly ignoring the young man. "Would you like a scone?" she asked Alex. "They're one pound twenty-five each or two for two; we have a lavender white chocolate that goes well with your drink, and…the sugared rose, I think, for Serge."

"_Sugared rose?_" echoed the Irish voice, appalled. "We only stock those for Mrs. Bagwell; what the hell did you make for him?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," she replied mirthfully. To Alex she added, with an indicative inclination of her head, "This, obviously, is Valentine."

"Ah yes: 'Gentleman Entrepreneur and Very Important Man'," Alex recalled.

Valentine perked up at that and came down the counter to regard her more closely with his eerie pinhole eyes. It was a discomfiting experience, but not nearly as intense as being subject to Serge's (perceived) gaze. "Can't think what he sees in you," he said at last, without irony. "What did you _do_ to get a death sentence in the White City?"

"I didn't, actually," she replied, less than amused at his disparaging assessment. "It was a case of mistaken identity."

"Well, what did the girl you were mistaken for do, then?"

"I don't know, exactly," she confessed. "But I'm going to fix it."

Helena looked meaningfully at Valentine, then back at Alex. "Waking the White Queen in the process?" she asked, her expression strange and suddenly somber.

"Something like that." Alex frowned, feeling there was some hint under Helena's words that she wasn't quite catching. "Any advice?"

Helena considered this for a moment, then smiled. "It's not the chicken."

"What's not?" Valentine asked, as though genuinely concerned to have missed something.

Alex chuckled. "Sort of figured out that much on my own. Do you know what the charm _is_?"

Helena's dark eyes grew reminiscent, though her smile broadened. "Oh, you'll have to ask the Orbiting Giants that."

"Sounds fun," Alex declared, brightening at the notion of a first real lead. "Good enough. I'll take two scones – the ones you said a minute ago."

Valentine clapped his hands together gleefully and disappeared back through the doorway – presumably, into the kitchen. Alex looked after him for a second or two, then back at Helena, who was fitting the lattes into a perfectly ordinary two-cup carrier, and blurted, "Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but –"

"They're sold by batty old women in dusty corner shops," Helena said softly, looking up at Alex with a meaningful glance toward the kitchen as she handed over the cup carrier. "Not doctors. The rest you can probably work out on your own."

Alex shook her head, her confusion increasing exponentially at these words. She had meant to ask Helena how on earth she'd ended up, let alone stayed, with someone like Valentine, or maybe how you had a relationship with someone who didn't have eyes, but the moment had passed. Valentine swooped back in with a small white paper bag, patterned all over with iridescent sunbursts, and presented it to Alex with the pronouncement: "That'll be nine pound twenty-five, miss, and thanks for your custom."

Alex took out the bill Serge had given her, considered the "£10" in the corner, and mused, almost regretfully, "I was probably supposed to bring change back, wasn't I?"

"Another 75p and we'll throw in jam and clotted cream," Helena said casually; Alex, managing the math in her head, caught the hint and handed Valentine the £10. "Clotted cream sounds delightful," she told him. "Disgusting, but delightful."

"Excellent choice, miss," he said, pocketing the money. "Do you prefer strawberry preserve, thick-cut marmalade, or lemon curd?"

Alex gave Helena a look that she hoped conveyed the utter absurdity of the question, not to mention, Valentine's very existence. Helena grinned in reply and answered for her, "She'll take the lemon curd, love." To Alex, she added, "It's amazing with the lavender."

Valentine ducked down behind the counter and emerged a moment later with two lidded portion cups. He tucked them inside the scone bag, then handed the bag to Alex. "Whatever you do," he said gravely, "don't eat the Future Fruit."

"_Shh!_" Helena hissed, though the sound was equally akin to a giggle. "For all we know, it's vital that she does. Or he does. Anyway, it's not like it's been 300 years since the last time; it probably hasn't even started to grow back yet."

Alex looked between them with the same expression – patronizing and mildly amused, with a sheen of sarcasm over raw incredulity – that she used for Max most of the time. "You know, if the pair of you were less cute," she decided, "you'd probably be committed."

Far from being offended, Helena smiled. "Tell me about it," she murmured, casting a meaningful sidelong glance in Valentine's direction. "Anyway – " her voice returned to a normal conversational volume – "thanks for coming in, and good luck. With everything." She winked playfully at that, which Alex pretended not to notice.

"Thanks," Alex replied and, cup carrier and scone bag in hand, turned to leave the shop. Halfway to the door, she heard a giggle and some murmuring, this time with an Irish accent, and, in spite of herself, paused to look back. Whatever dialogue had been exchanged, Valentine had pulled the still-grinning Helena back against him with an arm about her waist and was nuzzling his masked face against her neck in a manner that was decidedly romantic and in no way ridiculous.

"Get off!" Helena laughed, giving his shoulder a half-hearted shove that implied she had very little objection to his behavior.

Flushing slightly, Alex turned away, her insides tangling in a strange kind of envy that she couldn't begin to understand, and moved quickly toward the door, only to stop a few steps later at a call of, "Oh, and Alex?"

She looked back at Helena, who had apparently resigned herself to the embrace; smiling softly, she stood with her back to Valentine's chest and his chin resting on the top of her head. "Love the boots," she said.

Alex was halfway back to the library before she realized she'd never told Helena her name.

_Author's Note: If you haven't yet seen _MirrorMask_, Valentine and Helena are the original protagonists, who go through a series of adventures largely identical to Serge and Alex's. They don't significantly impact the plot of this story, but I really couldn't keep them out. _:D _I intend to provide some small further explanation for their presence in a future chapter; in the meantime, suffice it to say, this is one way I could see the dreamworld continuing after the film. As you may have inferred, Alex's story takes place about five years after Helena's (_MirrorMask _having been released in 2005), hence the changes in the characters' appearance. The dreamworld has, of course, been recast respective to Alex, and any references, such as the Prime Minister's remark "many years ago, in the reign of the previous Queens" refer to the film. And while I had a blast borrowing them, Valentine and Helena belong entirely to Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean – and perhaps a bit to actors Jason Barry and Stephanie Leonidas._

_Author's Admission of Shameless Self-Promotion: Just in case anyone's curious, the drinks Helena makes for Alex are originals from my home coffee "shop" (i.e., forthcoming-shop-in-progress). Queen of Light (inspired by the character, originally portrayed by Gina McKee) uses white chocolate, caramel sauce, a lavender infusion, and half the espresso of a regular latte, and is topped with gold glitter sugar and lavender flowers. Serge's drink (not named here but known as Jalex Aforethought in real life _;D_) is a _Song of Solomon_-inspired blend of honey, myrrh, Rooh Afza (a fragrant rose and kewra syrup), rosewater, saffron, and cinnamon – minus the cinnamon here at Alex's request (see S.1, Ep. 5, "Disenchanted Evening" for the reference) – and topped with honeycomb and Seven Blossoms tea (a nod to the Russos' Latin heritage). Both are lovely, and if you're ever in the Olympia, Washington, area, give me a holler and I'll make you one for free!_


	10. Chapter Nine: Headlock

_Author's Note: Gentle readers, please forgive the 6-ish month absence. I was trying to catch up on Spinsters and Lunatics (see my profile if you want details on that delightful little enterprise) – I made two distinct editions of our March issue and both were quite entertaining, if I do say so myself! _ _In any case, am hoping to get back on the ball with this latest chapter, which I much enjoyed putting together. As always, would love to hear your thoughts! :D_

**Chapter Nine: Headlock**

_Distant flickerings, greener scenery_

_This weather's bringing it all back again_

_Great adventures, faces and condensation_

_I'm going outside to take it all in…_

_~ Imogen Heap, "Headlock"_

_And anyway! _Alex exasperatedly reminded herself as she wound her way back to the Library's cobblestone courtyard, _even if Serge _had _written out the stay of execution himself and only went to Valentine for the notarization _– as the difference in handwriting and inkstains on Serge's fingers suggested _– at the least, he'd have had to tell Valentine your name! And you know Helena saw Serge when he came in; she'd have been in the room at the time, so that's how she knew your name. It's as simple as that!_

Still…she couldn't help wondering what else Serge had told them about her. _Can't think what he sees in you,_ Valentine had said. He didn't seem the sort of person to give away a favor, let alone a notarization to forestall an execution, at a quick explanation – "I just met this girl and now she's been arrested" would hardly have sufficed – so Serge must have told him…something. _The business side of it, maybe?_ There was an amusingly mercenary air about Valentine, and she suspected he would have acted quickly upon learning she and Serge were business partners, after a fashion, and upon meeting her – well, there was no doubt in Alex's mind that didn't she didn't fit Valentine's idea of a promising financial prospect. That explained, "Can't think what he sees in you."

Helena's observations were a little more intriguing: _I've never seen Serge quite that worked up. Not even…Well, never._ Apparently, despite his nonchalant remarks to the contrary, he had been genuinely worried about her. _Frantic,_ Helena had said. Alex frowned at an unfamiliar twinge of guilt, coupled with a still stranger feeling that she couldn't quite identify. The stilt-birds had led Serge to believe she was en route to execution; instead, while he'd been scrambling to save her life, she'd had a relatively easy time of it – after the arrest and bone-jarring transport, of course – strolling through the beautiful Palace of Light, listening as the Prime Minister wove his dark fairy tale, getting cool new clothes – _make that "preferable" clothes._ (After meeting Helena, the coolness quotient of Alex's new apparel was up for serious debate.) _In which case, maybe you owe him more than a weird flowery latte and a scone bought with his own money?_

She considered this for about two seconds and came up with a punchy and resounding _Naaaah!_ After all, she'd thanked him. Quite literally. Out loud. No fingers crossed, no eyes rolled. Caught up as she was in the moment, she'd very nearly hugged him (perish the thought!). And to top it off, she'd gone to the _Library_ with him (one neatly disregarded the fact that the Library had in fact been _her _destination – a notion too ridiculous for words)! _What more could anyone ask for?_

When she reached the Library courtyard a few minutes later, Serge was not waiting for her outside. This was not entirely surprising; had it been Justin, he might very easily have lost track of the time and of himself in the midst of a research project such as this – but as he persisted in reminding her, he _wasn't_ Justin, and therefore shouldn't have needed more than ten minutes to go upstairs, collect the book the Librarian had mentioned, and be off again.

All at once, she wondered if that wasn't exactly what he had done. After all, he claimed to be an adventurer: maybe sending her off to Helena had been his golden opportunity to cut and run, either to complete the quest on his own in hopes of eternal glory – and, one imagined, some sort of material reward – or simply to go back to his everyday routine and track down another concertina player. After all, he'd made it clear from the first that he was a busy man with things to do – and that, after his brief overview of the White City and neighboring lands, she was perfectly capable of making it on her own. And, much as it galled to admit now, _she_ had asked him, that eternity ago in the main street, not to leave.

Of course, if he'd really wanted to abandon her, it would've made sense to do so when she was arrested – but perhaps by then he'd felt responsible. Now that he'd ensured she wouldn't be executed anytime soon, he was probably keen to wash his hands of her, and a Library was an ideal place to do so. He knew she wouldn't follow him in if there was any way she could avoid it; he could have sneaked out the back – or, for that matter, once she'd left for the Café, out the front – and she would never be the wiser. Of a certain, that – or some variation on the theme – was what _she_ would've done, had their positions been reversed, and for the first time in her life, the realization was not a pleasant one.

Frowning, Alex hesitated just outside the front door, turning the situation over in her head. She wasn't often bested at her own game, and in the nearly impossible event that she was, she would be the last to admit it. With that in mind, she looked from one end of the empty courtyard to the other, then down at the cup carrier in her hand, and decided there was no help for it. Balancing the carrier and scone bag in one hand, she reluctantly reached for the massive oak door, swung it open, and slunk inside.

In an utter anticlimax, she was met almost immediately by a stern whisper of "Not on the premises, young lady – you or the beverages!"

The Librarian was perched behind his counter like a disgruntled seabird, his empty washer eyes narrowed on her in frank disapproval. From their shelf perches, the books appeared to be observing her approach with no little apprehension.

"I'm just looking for my friend," she answered in the loudest whisper she could muster. "Is he around here somewhere?"

"Haven't seen him since he took the lift to the top floor," the Librarian whispered back, crossly, "so I imagine he's still up there. You may wait – outside, of course."

"Nowhere to sit," Alex replied equably, her eyes flickering swiftly about the room as she fabricated a plan. "So if it's all the same to you, how about that sofa over – ?"

"Outside!"

Alex pulled a face at him before turning in mock resignation to walk back toward the exit, her mind working furiously. The elevator – or "lift," as the Librarian had called it, for whatever reason – was the sort that one saw in expensive hotels in old movies: fronted with an elaborate gate of bronze, it would be both prohibitively slow and noisy, even if she managed to make it there without the Librarian tossing her out on her head.

However: _where there's an elevator, there must be stairs._ Not that Alex had any intention of climbing all the way to the top, of course; rather, if she could tolerate one flight – and in this instance, her inclination toward crafty misbehavior far outweighed her laziness – she could summon the elevator from the second floor and take it the rest of the way up. The Librarian would assume she was Serge, cross-referencing between floors, and wouldn't realize the difference till she walked out the front door with Serge some minutes later. _Assuming he hadn't already left, some minutes before…_

Pointedly ignoring this train of thought, Alex reached the exit and, with one eye on the Librarian, who had resumed his paper shuffling behind the desk, she gave the oak door a hearty shove and made a swift dive to her left, putting a broad, brimming bookshelf between herself and the circulation desk. The door fell shut heavily, and she peered between two shelves to see the Librarian look up and make a contended sound at the empty entryway. "Good riddance," he muttered, turning back to his work.

Grinning, Alex crept along behind the shelf – easily a foot taller than her and twelve or more feet in length, it provided a perfect cover – and peered around the end to confirm that the Librarian was still entrenched in his work, having well and truly dismissed her, then silently crossed the three-foot space between that shelf and the next. The Princess's boots were soft and nearly soundless on the mother-of-pearl floor, and it took Alex little time at all to cross to the square central core of the Library. The opulent elevator faced the circulation desk, but the stairs – accessible through a doorless portal and enclosed from view, as she had hoped – lay behind the elevator and thus were perfectly obscured from the Librarian's line of sight.

The stairs – also pearlescent, though they appeared to be made of granite – were numerous but low in height – stairs for walking rather than climbing – and Alex arrived at the second floor with ease and scarcely a ripple in the cup carrier. Equally crammed with book-laden shelves as the ground floor, albeit only half as high-ceilinged, there appeared to be neither help desk nor attendant in sight; however, in no mind to take chances, she reached quickly around the corner to hit the "up" button then ducked back into the stairwell as the conveyance creaked and groaned its way up in answer to her summons. Incongruous with the racket of its ascent, the elevator gave an almost ridiculously dainty chime as the heavy bronze gate on this level – equally as ornate as that on the ground floor – slid open. Alex darted inside, hit the uppermost of the golden starburst buttons – marked "Turret Wing" – and settled in for the gear-grumbling, ponderous climb.

Six uninterrupted floors and half a latte later (the combination in "Queen of Light" proved every bit as heavenly as Helena had implied, even with lavender flowers floating across the surface), the gate – also bronze and ornately patterned, albeit almost filigree-delicate and clearly well-oiled – opened noiselessly on a snug turret of a reading room with a low peaked ceiling and mismatched-rug-strewn floor. With its round walls and ramshackle, sparsely filled shelves of yellowed paperbacks, it looked more like a cozy attic or (unsuccessful) used bookstore than part of this formidably grand Library.

At the opposite end of the room, perhaps ten feet in front of Alex, Serge sat in a window seat, apparently oblivious to her arrival. His cream-colored jacket had been removed and set aside to reveal a sharply tailored white shirt, cuffed to the elbows, and a waistcoat, the same shade of red as his jaunty ascot, embroidered with iridescent cream-colored thread in an elegant scalloped pattern. Far stranger still, his feet were veritably surrounded by _books_. Books of all conditions and colors and sizes, some perched on end, some lying in casual heaps, and all making contented chirruping sounds, like so many songbirds. In fact, in his current state of dress, he looked very much like a businessman on his lunch in a park, sharing his food with the pigeons – save for the fact that his hands were cupped and resting on his knees, cradling something red that fluttered blur-swift as a dragonfly and made little cheeping sounds as he bent over it, murmuring inaudibly.

Alex caught her breath, her eyes lingering on the long pale hands and thick black hair. Bent as he was over the fluttering red thing, she could hardly see the mask or the eye patch, without which – coupled with his unexpectedly easeful pose – he looked years younger. Softer. And, not for the first time, very familiar.

Alex had taken half a step forward when, without looking up – or, indeed, moving at all – he said, "Slowly – softly. I've only just managed to quiet them down."

Startled, she obeyed without protest, tiptoeing around the sprawl of books – a few pages ruffled uneasily, but none whimpered nor made efforts to hide – to reach the window seat. Serge still had not looked up at her, but, as if in unspoken acknowledgment of her presence, he uncurled his hands a little so she could see what he held so carefully: a tiny paperback, about the size of Alex's palm, bound in cheery red leather with no more than 30 pages between its covers. In the cradle of Serge's palms it shifted like a fledgling bird, confused and a little unsure of its surroundings but no longer desirous of flight.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He gently closed the book – it did not resist but closed almost in relief – to reveal its title, embossed on the red cover in a scribble of gold: _A Really Useful Book_. Serge lifted his head then, betraying the wry smile on his lips, and Alex grinned in reply. "See?" she teased. "It never hurts to ask."

"Ha," he said shortly, but his tone was tender – almost impossibly so. Softened for the proximity of the little book, it seemed. "It took me ten minutes just to coax it down from the rafters."

The book cheeped affectionately at this remark, not unlike a contented baby chick, and Alex's ever-sarcastic façade – to say nothing of her heart – suddenly and inexplicably melted. "Do you think it would like a piece of scone?" she asked, setting the cup carrier on the floor in order to open the bag.

"It's a _book_, Alex, not a – a baby bird!" he sputtered, his tone falling somewhere between disgusted and aghast.

"Well, it acts like one," she retorted, a little hurt at his rebuff of her uncharacteristic impulse. "Anyway, I was just trying to be nice."

"I believe you were," he admitted, with more than a trace of amazement, then, "You said scone? Where did you -?"

Alex dutifully held up the sunburst-bedecked bag.

Serge sighed. "That's my change, isn't it?"

"Well, you didn't say you wanted it back," she pointed out, "and anyway, it's been forever since I last ate, and they gave us little cups of lemon curd and this whipped cream stuff."

He shook his head hopelessly. "You _did_ manage the coffee all right, I trust?"

With her opposite hand she picked up the cup carrier and turned it so the side containing his latte was nearest him. "Ta," he said gratefully, and, shifting the _Really Useful Book _to his cupped right hand, he reached to remove the drink lid with his left.

A supremely awkward silence fell – even the books seemed to be holding their collective breath – as Serge considered the beverage within. "Alex," he said at last. "This is not my doppio espresso with two demerara sugar cubes."

"What makes you say that?" was her innocent reply.

"Well, for starters, it has bits of honeycomb and flower petals floating at the top."

She bit her lip to restrain a smile.

"It smells of roses, even at this distance," he added, "and it's _pink_."

"Right." She let a bit of the smile creep through – the disarming bit that was (generally) foolproof at getting her out of trouble. "That's because Helena, who isn't your girlfriend, said you should have it instead of your usual."

He frowned. "What do you mean, not my girlfriend?"

"I know," she agreed, with a pity that was far more genuine than not. "And I'm sure it must be heartbreaking for you, but she and Valentine are really happy together."

"I know _that._" He brushed this aside with a gesture, exasperated and – was it? – even a little indignant. "What on earth made you think she was my girlfriend?"

"Oh please." Imitating his accent, she parroted, "'Café du Cirque, Monkeybird espresso, ask for Helena.' "

No barbed rejoinder answered this, and Alex wondered if she'd gone too far. For several long moments Serge simply sat there in silence, his masked face still turned toward the drink, which he had made no further move to pick up.

She began to count heartbeats – _fifteen, sixteen, _thundered in her ears – till she couldn't bear it any longer."And, um…she's really pretty," she added timidly, "so, um, I kind of thought – "

"No." He looked up at that, his pinhole eye and the rakish eye patch facing her squarely, though his voice remained quiet. "She's a good friend; she…helped me back on my feet recently when I…" He broke off for a moment, lips pressed in thought. "When I hit a rough patch," he said – or rather, decided. Even to Alex, it was clear that he was carefully mincing details. "And yes, she is lovely, but…no. Nothing of that sort between us."

Something in his words made Alex's chest hurt – keenly. She set down the scone bag and fumbled with the cup carrier, uncapping her own half-empty cup in an attempt to banish the feeling. "Here, do you want my drink?" she offered. "I know it's half-gone, but – it's good, really good. There's lavender in it."

To her surprise, he gave a soft chortle of laughter. "Grateful though I am for the gesture, you selfish minx, I'd best try this creation of Helena's. No doubt she had some reason for recommending it."

Smiling crookedly, he handed her the lid, took the cup and raised it to his lips for a sip. Silence fell once more, longer and somehow tenser than the last, as he lingered over the cup. Alex remembered suddenly how the drink had struck her – the strange, tangible memory its fragrance had evoked – and wondered – insanely, to be sure – whether it was making Serge think of her.

"It's…exquisite," he said finally. "Rose, saffron, and something…resinous. Myrrh, perhaps."

For perhaps the third time in her life, Alex was too impressed to mock. "How do you know all that?"

"Botany is a useful study for any gentleman," he answered crisply, "particularly the adventuring sort." Taking another lingering swallow, he declared, "This is amazing. Did Helena say why she chose this recipe?"

"Um…something about sending pretty girls to get your coffee," she recalled aloud, "and, um, thinking you'd enjoy it, since you sent me."

"Indeed." He rose to his feet, careful not to disturb the books around him, while Alex attempted to decipher whether or not the single word had been a confirmation of Helena's insights. "And the reason you came up here?"

For a moment Alex was too taken aback to respond. "I know the Librarian didn't send you," he explained, "to say nothing of allowing you free access to the building. You clearly snuck up here with scones and lattes, and –"

"You weren't at the designated meeting place," she blurted, coloring a little, then, sensing his confusion, she added, "You know, like when you're at the mall with someone and you don't want to go to the same store, so you – oh, never mind." The blush deepened excruciatingly as she forced out the words. "I, um…I thought...maybe you'd left without me."

"And where exactly did you think I'd be going, Alex?" he answered lightly, the shadow of a smile playing about his lips. "I staked my good name and fortune on you, not to mention my last ten pounds."

Alex grinned, wanting to hug and punch him all at once and, finding her hands full, took a lengthy sip of her latte instead. "Well, there is that," she agreed sagely. "So: now what?"

"I thought you'd never ask." His smile broadened as he held out his right hand, where the _Really Useful Book _lay, apparently napping. "You're going to like this."

Alex looked from the book to his face and back again. "Really?" she wondered aloud, disbelieving even a dream could be this easy.

He shrugged. "See for yourself."

Tired of juggling, she handed Serge the scone bag and abandoned her drink cup to a nearby end table, then gently took the book in both hands. It gave a quiet chirrup as she traced the script on its cover, more in affection than thought, with a fingertip. "Okay, _Really Useful Book_," she said, "what do we do next?"

To her eternal disappointment, the book did not promptly open itself to the proper page but appeared to be waiting for her to make a move; chuckling at her own ridiculousness, Alex obligingly opened the book to somewhere near the middle. The page she revealed held only one sentence, hand-written in square capital letters: _Why don't you look out the window._

She looked from the book to Serge again, curiously this time. He still stood in front of the largest – and indeed, nearest – window in the room, and she turned the book so he could read the instruction. "Um, can I…?"

"Be my guest." He stepped aside, ever mindful of the books, and Alex, equally cautious, made her way up to the window. Its panes were unhelpfully stained, like the palace windows, in myriad shades of gold and cream, and holding the book to her chest, she knelt on the window seat and worked at the latch one-handed. To her surprise, the pane swung out easily to admit, of all things, one of the little silver flying fish they had seen in the street below. It flitted forward to brush against her cheek – its touch was powdery and light as a butterfly wing, making her giggle – then flitted back out again and flew away.

Serge's voice, deeply amused, came from behind: "Alex, I'm not gonna lie: that was adorable. Like –"

She shot him a quelling look over her shoulder. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'Disney Princess,' I will kill you."

"So noted." He smiled, the amusement far from past. "Absolutely no idea what you're talking about, mind, but: so noted."

She turned back to look out the window properly: it seemed the entire White City lay below, a maze of turrets and pearly-shingled roofs and, off in the distance…a floating amorphous glob? Or was it two globs close together? "Do those look like orbiting giants to you?" she wondered aloud.

She felt Serge step up behind her and bend to look over her shoulder; though he was careful not to touch her unnecessarily, she could feel the heat of his chest at her back. "I suppose they could be. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think I just found our next stop." She turned, triumphant, to look up at him, and her smile flickered a little at the unexpected proximity of his face – namely, the left side, where the mask cut away to reveal smooth fair skin, a cheekbone and, of course, the black patch over his eye. She swallowed hard before adding, as smugly as she could manage, "Score one for Alex, right?"

Seemingly oblivious to her reaction, he smiled back. "So it would seem."

He stepped back to retrieve his coat, the bejeweled cane beneath it, and, with a little bow of gallantry, her latte. "Lunch here or on the way?" he asked, somehow managing, amidst all the rest, to keep the scone bag in one hand.

Alex turned from latching the window, grateful for the moment to recollect herself. "On the way," she said. "You never know, maybe those fish eat scone crumbs."

He acknowledged this with a grin, and they made their way back, past heaps of now-slumbering books, to the elevator. The gate slid open on the waiting platform – since Alex's arrival, the elevator had not been summoned elsewhere – and she stepped inside, eager to be off, but Serge hesitated a moment, his grin abruptly absent, his lips tight and grave as he held the gate open with one arm. "I never would have left you, Alex," he said, the words quiet but intense as a promise – perhaps a promise that had to be tendered before he would proceed. "You know that, don't you?"

She stared back at him; struck by the somberness of the moment, all teasing impulses had fled. "Yeah," she said softly, and, apparently satisfied, he stepped in beside her, pressing the button for the ground floor with his elbow. If he heard her subsequent murmur, he gave no sign of it.

"_Even if you didn't know who I was."_


End file.
